Sunshine
by NancyMay
Summary: We know that Jean got pregnant before she married Christopher, but ... what if he wouldn't 'do the right thing', by Jean, what if she was left pregnant and thrown out by her parents? Well here goes ...
1. Chapter 1

"What do you mean, pregnant?!" he yelled at her.

"Precisely what I say," she snapped back, "having a baby, your baby!"

"Are you sure?" he ran his hands through his unruly black curls.

"Of course I'm sure," she sobbed, "I know my own body."

"No, are you sure it's mine?"

That earned him a slap across the face, "whose do you think it is?"

"Well, Matthew Lawson's always hanging around," he huffed, holding his hand against the stinging cheek, "and there's Bill Hobart ... I saw him, when you were shopping ..."

She slapped him even harder, barely able to see through the tears coursing down her cheeks. She had caved in to his dancing dark eyes, his charm and eventually let him bed her, in the barn of all places. The first time had been painful, but he had assured her nothing would happen, not the first time. After that, he had taken her when she would let him, though he had made her feel guilty when she refused. Sometimes it was just kisses that went too far, other times he chased her into the barn or an outbuilding and threw her down and they recklessly copulated, though he would pull out when he remembered. Now, she was pregnant, with child out of wedlock, and he was the only one she had been with. She had thought that when she told him he would do the honourable thing and marry her, but here he stood, doubting it was his, insinuating she had been with others. She was hurt, angry - with herself and with him in equal measure - and terrified at what her parents would say.

They said a lot. How disappointed they were, how she had dishonoured the family, how her mother would not be able to hold her head up in town, and finally, that she would have to go if Christopher wouldn't marry her.

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Dr Thomas Blake saw her, standing at the bus stop, counting her change. She could only go as far as the money would allow, then she had no idea what she would do.

"Jean?" he stepped out of the car and went to her, "going away?"

He had been the family doctor for as long as she could remember, gentle and kind, sad, she thought, something to do with his son, Lucien, who had been sent to school in Melbourne some years previous, then, who knew?

"Oh, er yes, Dr Blake," she tried to hide the red eyes and nose, dipping her head to hide the pallor that she had no make up to cover. "I, um," she sniffed, she had promised herself she would be strong, but right now ...

He could see she was in trouble, upset, and ... Jean would never leave Ballarat without saying anything to him, he knew more about her than he did his own son. She had cleaned for him, on occasion, baked shortbread and left a casserole in the oven. His housekeeper was less than reliable and many a time he had thought of letting her go. Perhaps he and Jean could support each other - her as his housekeeper and he - well a father figure of some sort, maybe. She was younger than Lucien so he had no impure thoughts.

"I need to give you a quick check up," he held out his hand and smiled gently, "before you go travelling."

"Oh, no, Dr Blake," she gasped, "really, it's not necessary," she stepped back.

"But I think it is," he looked down at her, "after all, I will have to send your notes to your next GP, and what kind of reputation is that going to get me, if I let you go, without a check up?"

Jean was too tired, too miserable to argue. Dr Blake would soon discover her secret and she was sure he would be very disappointed in her and that hurt even more than Christopher's abandonment of her.

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He took her blood pressure and weighed her, noting she had gained a little, not enough given her shape, which she had hidden under her coat. Her face looked thinner.

She could see he had worked it out, and blushed. Well he was a doctor ... a tear made its way down her cheek, she palmed it away and sniffed.

"So Jean," his voice was so soft and warm, with no hint of disappointment, only perhaps, sadness, "running away?"

"No, oh no," she gulped, "no ... mother ... I have to go."

"Jean," he leant forward over his desk and linked his hands together, "what are you going to do? You have no money, except what is in your purse, a few shillings at most, where are you going to stay?"

She looked down at her hands and twisted her fingers together.

"I need a housekeeper," he sat back, "someone who can cook and clean, answer the phone and be polite to my patients. In return I will give you bed and board, a small wage, and, if you prove to be willing and able, I will see you are trained to do the books, manage the practise for me."

"Dr Blake ..." she gasped, "I can't ..." she stroked her hand subconsciously over her still flat stomach, "the scandal."

'Scandal be blowed,' he thought, "we can sort something out," he spoke, "I'm sure you would be better off here, than running away to some place where you don't know anybody ..."

"The baby ..." she was openly crying now, "what about the baby?"

"This is a big house, Jean," he smiled, "it had a little one running around here, once. And yes, he annoyed me, too excitable, bursting in on my surgeries ... but, Jean, I miss those days." There were tears in his eyes, she could see his regret.

"But ..." she knew this was not just a kind offer, it was something they both needed, she a home and job, he a friend, someone to run his home and surgery. The only trouble was she was pregnant, known in the town, and unmarried. She would be shunned by everyone she knew, the church would turn its back on her ...

"You just need a story," he smiled, "without pointing the finger at someone."

"I didn't want to," she sniffed, "at first. He said if I loved him ..."

"Emotional blackmail," Dr Blake grunted, "what do his parents say?"

"I don't know if he's told them," she had thought about heading up to his family's place and confronting Christopher's father.

"Well, my dear," he reached over to the phone, "I think they ought to know."

"Oh, but ..." she gasped, fear in her eyes.

"No buts about it, Jean," he continued dialling the number, "if it was my son who had done this I would want to know. Now, while I talk to Mr Beazley, why don't you go and make us some tea, eh?"

"Yes, doctor," she sniffed and headed to the kitchen. Frankly, at the moment, after what the doctor had offered her she didn't care if Christopher married her then left. At least her child would not be labelled a bastard and she would be able to go about the doctor's business with her head held high.

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Mr Beazley was not impressed with his son's behaviour. He knew he could be manipulative, particularly with his mother, who he would accuse of not loving him if she didn't give in and let him have a little spare cash to go out with his mates. Now it would appear he had manipulated that sweet Randall girl and got her into trouble. Well, he was going to marry her, whether he liked it or not, his first grandchild was not going to grow up with the worst label Ballarat could bestow on it.

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As they left the church Dr Blake whispered to Jean that, if necessary, his door was always open to her, and her treatment would be free, if she would pop by occasionally and do a little cleaning for him. She was grateful to him. Christopher's family had made over a tiny cottage for them, given him work on the farm, but that was all. They were, to all intents and purposes, on their own.

Mr Beazley made sure that half of the small wage he paid his son went to Jean, to feed and clothe them. Christopher's mother knitted like fury for the baby, and helped Jean make the required nightgowns and stockpile nappies and baby paraphernalia. There would be no new pram or cot, a large laundry basket would do for a bassinet, and it could stand on a bench outside the door when Jean was in the yard.

Christopher resented Jean, and the baby. He wasn't gentle with her if he engaged with her at all and she knew that when he went into town, at night, he was seeing other women and drinking much of his wages. She began to wonder if it would have been easier to run the gauntlet of shame and gossip, than to live this half life.

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She was six months pregnant when Christopher didn't come home. He had gone into town after shovelling down the stew she had made for their dinner, pushed his plate away and grunted.

"Don't wait up," he grabbed his jacket, and the small amount of change in the tin she kept the housekeeping in, and stamped out of the house, slamming the door behind him. She sighed, she didn't cry, the tears had stopped weeks ago, she just washed the dishes and went to sit down in the small living room. The baby kicked and she stroked her stomach. This tiny thing would depend on her for everything, for sustenance, warmth and love.

"I'm sorry, little one," she whispered, "but, I don't think he's going to be much of a father. I'll do my best, please forgive me."

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She woke to his side of the bed, cold. There was no sign he had been there, the pillow remained undented, and anyway, she would have noticed. She got up, washed and dressed and went to make tea. She looked out over the field and could only see one person working. She wandered far enough to dentify that person, and it was her father in law.

Christopher hadn't been seen. Jean told his parents he had gone out the previous evening, though she didn't mention he had taken what remained of her housekeeping, she didn't know where he was, who he had gone to see ...

"Right, lass," Mr Beazley patted her shoulder, "I'll go into town, see if anyone's seen him, report him missing if I have to."

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Nobody had seen him, or so they said. His friends said they had left him after he had won a few shillings at two up. Mr Beazley asked the girls in the shops, even checked with the priest at Sacred Heart. The last place he went was the bus station, where he showed a photograph, it was the one of the wedding, and where it transpired Christopher had taken a bus to Melbourne, one way.

"Seems he's run away," Mr Beazley told his wife, before he spoke to Jean.

"What about Jean, the baby?" she sniffed.

"Maybe we shouldn't have made him marry her," he mused, "she's still going to be on her own with the bab, we can't keep this place going. I offered it to him, to run as his own, but he just sneered and said he'd rather join the army."

"D'ye think he's done that?" she asked, almost hopeful.

"He's in for a shock if he has," he grunted, "I'll make some enquiries."

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If Christopher had joined the army it wasn't in Melbourne. Mr Beazley made as many calls as he could but it seemed his son had vanished off the face of the earth. Jean knew, deep down that he had left her, that it had been a mistake. She packed her suitcase, put the baby things in the laundry basket and set out to the one person who treated her like a human being, not a skivvy, or a drain on resources ... she headed to Dr Thomas Blake.

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Thomas was sitting with an evening whisky, savouring the tang of the malt as it slipped over his tongue and down his throat. That and his pipe were his little rewards for a good day serving the people of Ballarat, treating his patients at the hospital and performing the occasional autopsy for the police. He was wondering if he should treat himself to a second, small measure when there was a knock on the door.

It wasn't a short walk from the Beazley farm and she practically fell across the threshold into the doctor's arms, dropping the suitcase and laundry basket to the floor.

"Oh my dear girl," he gasped, supporting her through to the living room, "don't tell me you walked? Goodness me."

He settled her on the couch and helped her out of her patched coat.

"Christopher," she breathed out, "he's gone, left."

"Fool," he pulled his lips into a thin line. "When?"

"Two weeks ago," she leant back against the couch, "Mr Beazley's been looking for him, he went to Melbourne, we think, but that's it. I didn't know what to do, there isn't enough for me at the farm, it doesn't pay and they offered it to him, to do something with the land, but he doesn't want it ... or me."

"Right, miss," he smiled, "tea, a quick check up, then you can have one of the rooms upstairs."

"Dr Blake," she looked into his clear blue eyes, "does the offer of a job and lodgings still hold?"

"It absolutely does, my dear," he stroked her hair, "for as long as you want."

"I'll do my best not to disappoint you."

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A quick check showed her blood pressure raised a little, but after such a long walk Dr Blake wasn't surprised; he took some blood to check for anaemia then took her upstairs to show her round.

"There are three rooms, Jean," he opened each door, "one for you, one can be for the baby when it arrives and a spare. The bathroom is just here and the linen cupboard - you'll need some for your bed, none of them are made up."

She chose a room with soft pink walls and a small double bed, blushing as she did so. It had a wardrobe, dressing table and a bedside cabinet on which stood a lamp and a clock. The room next door was the smallest and she said it would be just right for the baby.

"I'll see if I can find the cot we had for Lucien, and the pram," he smiled, he was actually looking forward to having the young woman in the house and the baby. It was too quiet in the evenings, and even though they would have to run the gauntlet of the gossip it would soon die down He'd recently advertised for a new housekeeper, having had his fill of the woman who came in daily, and he had been a little disappointed when Jean had married the Beazley boy, hence his offer outside the church.

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Over the next week, Jean cleaned the house properly, cooked tasty meals, baked the doctor's favourite cakes and biscuits and settled into the house as his housekeeper and receptionist. His previous housekeeper could not be relied on to make appointments in the diary and too often people had to sit in the waiting room until he had finished with a patient whose appointment was at the same time. She also made the waiting room inviting, with fresh flowers on the desk and magazines on the little table. They both knew that patients were looking for any signs of a romance between the old widowed doctor and the young deserted wife but there was none. Agnes and Nell Clasby had agreed that they would fight the battle for them, having known Thomas for many years, and his late wife, and his cheeky son, now somewhere overseas - a doctor himself. They noticed a brightness in his demeanour, a lightness in his step and decided that young Jean Beazley was just the right person to look after him ... and the practice.

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True to his word he had found the cot for the baby, and the pram. The cot was in remarkably good condition, all it needed was a new mattress and a good clean, maybe a coat of paint. It was painted white cast iron with brass finials at each corner. The pram was in need of a clean and polish. The hood, leather, had been left up but not fastened and Mrs Blake must have polished it thoroughly for it to have kept so well. It too needed a new mattress, but Jean was sure she could make one, she would have to price up the cost of a new mattress for the cot. Thomas paid her well, she thought, and she was able to save some of her wages. She saved money by making her own clothes using Mrs Blake's old sewing machine, having decided she needed to do something to show the practice off in a good light. Dr Blake's receptionist could not go around in second hand patched dresses, it wouldn't reflect well on him.

She was so eager to make him glad he had chosen her to work for him that there were times he had to stop her and make her rest.

"You are expecting a baby, Jean," he gently chided her, "you must be careful, now, how are you managing with the new freezer?"

"I'm still getting used to being able to store meals, food for us, for so much longer," she had smiled at him, having got over the shock he would embrace such new ideas, though he had had it put in the outbuilding.

"Well, when you have the baby you will not be running around cooking and cleaning for me, dear girl," he placed his hand on her shoulder, "not until I say you can."

"Dr Blake," she fiddled with her tea cup, "will you be there, when I give birth?" She blushed, she had been building up to ask this question, wanting him to deliver the baby, worried about being in a hospital room with nameless medical people telling her what to do.

"Do you want me to be?" he smiled, "would you like me to deliver your baby?"

"Oh Dr Blake," she gasped, "would you?"

"Of course I will, if that's what you want," he smiled and patted her hand. "Now, surgery, I believe, Mrs Beazley."

She giggled, and took their cups to the sink. She hoped Christopher wouldn't come back. She hoped he was alright, she wasn't vindictive, and part of her predicament was her inability to stand up to him, when he insisted they become intimate, outside marriage.

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She was in labour for what seemed like forever. Time dragged - eighteen hours of relentless cramping and tightening around her belly, but all the time, Thomas was there. He spoke to her, suggested silly names for the baby, asked the midwife to get her iced water when she wanted it, and wipe her brow to cool her down.

She finally gave birth as the sun came up, to a beautiful baby girl. As he held her up while the midwife cut the cord he smiled,

"Good morning, sunshine," he winked at Jean, "she's lovely, Jean, perfect in fact."

Cleaned up and weighed, just nudging six pounds, she was handed to her mother. Jean didn't think she had ever seen anything so small and pretty, with huge dark eyes and a smattering of dark curls.

"So, he whispered, "does she have a name?"

"You called her 'Sunshine'," Jean smiled tiredly, "but that's for us, don't you think? Mary for everyone else."

"Lovely," he patted her shoulder, resisting the urge to give her a fatherly kiss to the forehead, "now, get some rest, the hard work begins. Nurse will bring her to you for feeds, in between which you must rest, eat and drink."

"Thank you, Dr Blake," her eyelids were closing, "for everything."

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After a week of enforced bed rest Jean was becoming frustrated and bored. Mary (Sunny to her mother and the doctor) was an easy baby, feeding and sleeping well. Jean had little to do, although Dr Blake brought her books and magazines to read, told her how surgery was going and assured her he was eating properly, that the meals she had left for him, in the freezer, were perfect, she was missing her room at the top of the house and the evening in the living room, talking over the days business.

"Can't I come home now?" she sighed one morning, as he did his rounds, always finishing with her so he could spend a little longer with her, "I promise to be good."

He looked at her.

"I would have a doctor on hand," she smiled a cheeky smile, and tipped her head.

"Well," he hummed ...

"Good, I'll get dressed," she pushed the covers back and swung her legs over the side of the bed.

"Wait a minute, young lady," he stopped her, "where do you think you are going?"

"To get my clothes," she told him, "can't go home in a nightdress, can I? What would the town say?"

"Jean," he laughed, "what am I going to do with you?"

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The house felt like home when Thomas opened the door and stepped aside to let her enter. He had obviously had someone come in and clean. The wood was polished, there were fresh flowers on the hall table and when she entered the living room the cushions had been plumped and the rugs beaten.

She tucked Sunny up in the pram, left by the hat and coat hooks in the hall, and headed to the kitchen where she could hear the doctor making tea.

As they sat at the kitchen table he told her what she could and what she could not do, for the time being. Light housework only, some cooking if she wanted to, arranging appointments for his patients, of course:

"Apart from that, you take things easy," he patted her arm, "your parents know about Mary, so do Christopher's. You will have to register her birth, but you can do that when you're ready."

"Thank you, Dr Blake," she smiled and took her cup to the sink, "now I'd better put my things away before Sunny wakes for a feed."

He watched her tidy up and then head to her room. She picked up the little case at the bottom of the stairs and he could see how much better she was, since she came to work for him. Oh yes there had been tittle tattle about them, but it had died down almost as quickly as it had arisen, a combined effort between Nell and Agnes Clasby and one or two of the doctor's older patients.

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She pushed open the door to her room and dropped her suitcase. There, on the dressing table was a lovely bunch of flowers in a vase.

Thomas heard the suitcase fall and smiled to himself, she had found his little welcome home gift.


	2. Chapter 2

It took a few days for Jean to settle back into the house. Sunny's cot was pushed into her room, though it was a tight squeeze, so she didn't have to keep getting up in the night to feed and change her. Dr Blake insisted she took a nap each afternoon, with the baby, until she had passed the official lying in period.

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She had to go and register Sunny's birth at the town hall and this would be the test, for her, that she could go into Ballarat without being gossiped about, too much. She also had to do some grocery shopping, they were fast running out of fresh fruit and vegetables.

"Ask them to deliver what you choose, Jean," Thomas suggested, "you won't be able to carry it and push Sunny."

"You know, doctor," she mused as she settled a fed and clean baby in the pram, "there should be some kind of basket affair under the pram, for mothers who do their own shopping."

"The trouble is, good prams like this are made for nannies to take their charges out. What did your mother use, for you?"

"I think she tucked the shopping round me," Jean smiled, "and carried her basket."

"I think Genevieve used to carry what she needed immediately and have the rest delivered," he stroked the edge of the pram, remembering a certain blonde haired little boy who used to lie there, "why don't you do that. Let the grocer and butcher know I would like to have the orders delivered."

"If you think that's best, doctor," she smiled, shyly. Things such as this were not usual for her. The last shopping she had done for him, towards the end of her pregnancy she had taken the car.

"I do," he patted her shoulder, "right, off you go, enjoy your walk."

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Jean had chosen market day to go into Ballarat, perhaps it would have been better if she had chosen a quieter day, but the market had stalls she liked to buy from, things like fresh farm eggs, home-made jams she hadn't yet learned to make herself. But first ... the registrar.

He was an officious little man, bent from years of slaving over a desk, small dark eyes peering through half moon glasses.

"Yes?" he questioned, low and solemn.

"I'd like to register my baby's birth," she whispered, her mouth dry.

He drew out a book of forms and lifted his fountain pen,

"Name?"

"Mary," she had thought about Genevieve for a middle name but decided it wasn't a name for little girls born to an abandoned mother, so, "Mary," she repeated, "her name is Mary."

"Mother?"

"Jean Mary Beazley," she drew herself up a little.

"Father?"

Christopher Beazley."

He looked up at her, then continued his writing.

"Address?"

She gave the doctor's address, after all she lived there, but she did blush, a little.

He passed her the certificate and she folded it and tucked it under the mattress in the pram, then headed out to continue her shopping and to pass the message to the butcher and grocer that Dr Blake would like his orders to be delivered after Mrs Beazley had selected the goods.

There were too many people around for anyone to notice her in particular. She chose a dozen eggs and a jar of orange marmalade from the stall she preferred, and tucked them out of the way of Sunny's feet, before turning to go to the butchers and green grocers.

"Jean?" she was tapped on the shoulder, "Jean, goodness, where have you been?"

It was a friend, of sorts, someone who had been around when she and Christopher were widely accepted to be courting. Jean hadn't been one of the group really, she hadn't gone into Ballarat in the evening, her parents wouldn't allow it, that was when Christopher went out on his own. They hadn't seen each other since before the wedding, Ruth having taken a job in Castlemaine.

"Oh," Ruth looked down at the pram, and the handlebar, "yours?"

Jean had never been more grateful for losing a glove, at least her wedding ring was on display.

"Yes," she answered, quietly, "Mary."

"How old, she's so sweet?" Ruth positively squealed in delight.

"Nearly a month," Jean put her hand gently on the sleeping child.

"So, you're up at the Beazley farm? "Ruth continued, "I heard they were selling."

"Yes, they are, and, no, I'm Dr Blake's housekeeper, now," Jean dearly wanted to go to the shops and head home.

"Gosh," Ruth's eyes widened, "come and have a cuppa, with some of the others, at the cafe."

"I have things to do, for the doctor," Jean made to turn the pram, "before surgery," she really didn't want to get into a heart to heart about where Christopher was, or that he had run away, and, she did need to see to the doctor's lunch.

"Right, well," Ruth shrugged her shoulders, "another time."

"Yes, another time," Jean smiled slightly.

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Jean selected the meat and vegetables, fruit and groceries she needed and the shop owners were only too happy to deliver for Dr Blake. It had been easier than she thought. She went to the florist to get flowers for the waiting room and the hall before heading back to feed both Sunny and the doctor.

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"I've just seen Jean," Ruth sat in the cafe with some of the others who had been friends at one time. "She was pushing a pram, what are you lot not telling me?"

"Well, you high tailed it off to the bank in Castelmaine, " one young man said, "thought you were done with us."

"Come on Geoff," she teased, "tell me all."

Geoff looked at her. He hadn't been too friendly with Christopher, thought he was a skirt chaser of the wrong sort. "Shouldn't really," he shrugged, "she got hurt bad, by him."

"Poor Jean, though she seemed ok, just now."

"Up to her to tell," he pressed his lips together, "but if ever I see him I shall beat him into next week."

Ruth could see she wasn't going to get anymore out of Geoff, or the others, but Christopher had obviously done something bad and then run off. Was the wedding ring for show?

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Thomas noticed Jean was quiet, thoughtful, when she came back from shopping. She put the eggs and marmalade away and took Sunny upstairs for a feed, before seeing to lunch for herself and the doctor. He didn't intrude on her thoughts, knowing that she would tell him, sooner or later. He had another issue to deal with - Lucien had written.

He was surprised to get a letter from his son. They hadn't parted on the best of terms which had distressed Thomas but he didn't know how to deal with someone who was too like himself, when he was young. It wasn't a long letter, more a note just to let him know his intentions.

Jean put out a bowl of salad, some cold meat, cheese and bread, and a jug of water.

"The butcher and greengrocer are happy to deliver any heavy orders, doctor," she handed him the cold meat, "today's order should be here just before surgery."

"See, I told you they would do it," he smiled, "you have nothing to be ashamed of Jean, no need to worry what people say."

"Really, Dr Blake," she tutted, "I'm not."

"Not even a little bit?" he teased.

"Alright," she smiled, "I met Ruth Short, well, she found me in the market. I haven't see her for a long time, since before I ..." she fingered her ring, "anyway ... it doesn't matter. She was meeting some others and asked me to join them, I didn't want to sit there, being interrogated, over tea."

"Ah," he nodded wisely, "I quite understand. I used to get that, except it was usually to meet someone, after Genevieve passed." He turned his attention to his lunch, with a sigh, "I received a letter from Lucien, today."

"Oh, I wasn't sure ..."

"He says he is going to join the army, as a medic," he paused, "he'll go in officer class, with that qualification."

"You don't want him to, do you?" she saw worry in his eyes.

"Not really, but," he put his fork down, "oh Jean, I don't quite know what to say to him."

"Don't be angry with him," she murmured, "he's your son. Why don't you ... sorry, none of my business."

"No, go on," he encouraged, "I trust you, perhaps, from a mother's point of view."

"Well, I would tell him I was proud of him, for qualifying as a doctor, that I understand he wants to do something worthwhile, and though I had hoped he would come home, perhaps help here, or take his skills into a hospital, I would wish him well, or good luck. Hope that he writes and lets you know how he's getting on ... something like that." She blushed at what she perceived as her audacity, it was not for her, his housekeeper, to tell him what to say in his letter to his son.

"Thank you Jean," he smiled, "perhaps I will do just that. I do want him to take over the practice, one day, but maybe he has to find his place in the world himself, or find his way back here his way, not out of a sense of duty."

"I know how hurt my parents in law are, over Christopher leaving," she sighed, "I'd hate for you to go through the same."

"You are such a sweet young lady," he murmured, "I'm so glad you found you were able to come to me."

She just nodded and turned her attention to her meal.

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Jean closed the accounts book and took it back to the study, for the doctor to check. While he now expected her to see to the accounts, send out the bills and receipts he would still check them each week. It wasn't that he didn't trust her, he did, implicitly, but he had seen to them for so long it was difficult to let go completely. She had a few letters to type, she was getting quicker, and then she would get on with preparing the vegetables for dinner.

Cooking for Dr Blake had started with the recipes she knew and gradually she had used Mrs Blake's recipe books and added some other, to her, more extravagant dishes. Tonight it was a beef casserole she had made yesterday. It was always better eaten the following day, thick and warming, with mushrooms, carrots and a generous half bottle of red wine. Dr Blake ordered his own wines and let Jean take what she needed for cooking. She had left enough for him to have a glass with his meal, and her half a glass diluted with water, she found it a bit heavy. She had been very surprised when he told her they would eat together in the kitchen, and that if he was having a glass of wine she was welcome to join him. At first she had refused the wine but, since Sunny had been born she had tried it and enjoyed one with her meal. It wasn't every evening, usually towards the end of the week, or if she had used it in cooking.

She took the dish out of the fridge and placed it in a low oven before checking that Sunny was alright in the pram and heading to her typewriter in the waiting room. There was no surgery that afternoon, the doctor was at the hospital performing an autopsy on a man who had been found in an alley the previous night. He had told her about it, telling her it was difficult to ascertain time of death as it was so cold at night, the body was almost frozen when it was found. He didn't really want to discuss murder cases with a young woman but she had asked why he was so down one evening and he had told her a young woman had been pulled out of Lake Wendouree and it appeared she had been beaten to death and then her body thrown into the lake to hide it. But she had listened, been saddened about the death and, when he had told her the name of the girl, said she knew her from church. She had told him who she saw her with and the police had taken it from there. His involvement stopped there, so she knew he would be home, for his dinner, at five thirty.

Jean had nearly finished the first letter when there was a knock on the door. She wasn't expecting anyone, perhaps it was someone for the doctor, but with no surgery ...

"Ruth!" she exclaimed, then remembered her place, "what can I do for you?"

"Just thought I'd pop by for a chat," Ruth smiled, "unless you're too busy, with the doctor."

Jean didn't like the inference, but if she sent her away she would turn it into something else, "I was just typing some letters for him, I suppose they can wait until later," she stepped to the side, "come in, I'll make some tea."

Jean had never had her own friends, who were few, to drink tea with her in the doctor's house, and she thought maybe she should apologise when he came home, for now, she thought she knew why Ruth was here.

Ruth followed her down the hall, noting how clean the place was, that the woodwork was polished and the flowers in the vase on the hall table were fresh. Ruth was the same age as Jean and she was the first to admit she would not be able to work as a housekeeper, she lived in lodgings in Castlemaine and had her laundry done for her. She knew Jean's mother had insisted she help out in the house and it would seem those lessons had come in handy.

She sat at the table and watched Jean make the tea, put out cups, milk in a little jug and a plate of, what appeared to be, homemade shortbread.

"You live in, then?" she asked lightly.

"Yes," Jean put the teapot on the table, "I have my own room, upstairs."

"Nice," Ruth observed.

"I work here, Ruth," Jean huffed, "cook and clean, am his receptionist, do the book-keeping ... it's not an easy life." Jean didn't find it a hard life, but she wasn't going to let Ruth know that.

"So, where's Christopher?"

Jean frowned, they still hadn't been able to find him, Dr Blake said she had been abandoned, deserted, and if he didn't return at the end of a year, she had grounds for divorce. She had been surprised, they were both Catholics and the church would probably throw her out if she divorced him.

"Geoff said if he saw him he'd beat him into next week," Ruth continued, "did he run out on you, Jean?"

Jean looked at her, she didn't know if she wanted to upset her, or was genuinely there to chat.

"His father insisted we get married," Jean sighed and slumped in her chair, "he didn't want to, we had the little cottage on the farm. He left when I was six months gone. Everybody knows we had to get married, though I did try to leave Ballarat before it became obvious, to all but Dr Blake ..."

She opened up about how Thomas had found her at the bus station, how he had taken her in, offered her a job, a home, talked to the Beazley's ...

"... so, I had nowhere to go. I came to ask him if the offer still held, and here I am."

"You look content, Jean," Ruth touched her arm, "are you?"

"I am, Ruth, thank you," Jean was much more relaxed now, "it works for both of us. There was a little gossip, at first, but that died down. I think it was the Clasby's and some of his other patients. I'm younger than his son, Ruth," Jean laughed, "he treats me as an equal, though that's hard to believe. Farm girls usually go on to raise the next generation of farmers."

"I'm glad, Jean, so now I'll tell you about what Chris got up to when he was in town, of an evening." Ruth sat back, she hadn't liked how Christopher treated Jean, seeing her as an innocent, sweet and slightly vulnerable to the handsome boy's charms.

"I have some idea," Jean admitted, "two up, other girls, drinking ..."

"Precisely, he tried it on with most of us girls, some succumbed," Ruth looked down, "do you remember his going home with a scratch down his cheek? You wouldn't have seen it 'til the following day."

"Vaguely," Jean tipped her head, "it happened a couple of times, he said it was an argument over two up or cards."

"One time it was me," Ruth blushed, "oh, don't worry, he didn't get the chance, that was what the scratch was for. I knew he was dating you, I don't double date, Jean. Others, well, I know he, well, you know what I'm saying, with Sally."

"Sally suddenly left town," Jean put her hand to her mouth, "oh heavens, pregnant?"

Ruth nodded, "silly girl, did something about it. She lives in Castlemaine, she came into the bank, where I work." Ruth leant forward, "she looks bloody awful, Jean, thin, miserable. I met up with her, for a cuppa, it made a mess of her, she'll never have kids now."

Tears sprang to Jean's eyes, Sally had been one she was closer to, nobody would tell her why she had left town, though she had begun to think.

"Poor thing," Jean sighed, "is she working?"

"Yeah," Ruth nodded, "cleans in a hotel."

They sat in silence for a while until Sunny decided it was her turn for some attention.

"She needs feeding," Jean smiled, "you can stay, if you want, while I see to her."

"Oh, alright," Ruth had thought she should leave Jean for some privacy, but her mother had shown her how to be discreet if another woman was around.

Jean changed the baby and took her to the living room, draping a blanket over her shoulder and Sunny while she fed her.

"I thought," Jean kept her eyes fixed on the baby, contentedly suckling, "I thought you were going to gloat, or gossip," she spoke quietly, "because I got myself into a situation."

"God no!" Ruth almost laughed, "there but for the grace and all that," she sat back in the chair and watched the young woman, "Jean he was never going to do right by you."

"I know," she sighed, "but at least they can't give Mary a label."

"What will you do, about Christopher?"

"I'm not sure," she was torn, between obtaining a divorce and an annulment, or waiting seven years or so and having him declared dead. "I suppose I shall just keep doing what I do, here, for the time being, it suits us both."

Sunny had finished feeding so Jean held her against her shoulder and winded her.

"Better, sweetheart," she murmured in her tiny ear. Sunny smacked her lips in satisfaction and closed her eyes for her next round of sleep. Jean deftly tidied herself up before draping the blanket over the back of the couch again and offering the baby to Ruth.

"Oh, can I?" Ruth's eyes widened and she smiled. "She's adorable," she gushed, "so tiny."

"She has her moments," Jean smiled, "usually in the middle of the night." She watched Ruth stroke the baby's head, the smattering of dark hair, not as dark as her father's, less of a reminder of him. "I don't regret it, not now," she continued. "I did, at first, angry at being stupid enough not to stop him. But he said if I loved him, I'd let him. Emotional blackmail, Dr Blake called it, and I suppose it is."

"I think he did the same with Sally," Ruth passed the baby back, "men," she huffed, "can't live with 'em ..."

Jean smiled and took Sunny back, placing her in the pram in the hall.

"I'd best be off, Jean," Ruth touched her arm, "I'm glad we had chance to talk, before I go back to Castlemaine."

"To the bank?"

"Yes, it's a good job, pays quite well and the people are nice."

"I'm glad for you, Ruth," Jean opened the door to let her out, "if you are back, at any time, it would be nice to see you again."

"I'd like that, Jean, you take care of yourself, and that little bundle of cuteness."

"I will." She watched Ruth walk down the drive and felt glad that all her misgivings about her had proved to be.

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Jean sorted the mail, some for the doctor, personal and some for the practice. There was one for her, from Castlemaine - Ruth had been gone a week, so she was surprised to get a letter.

"Dear Jean,

Just a quick note to say how lovely it was to see you. Thank you for the tea and chat. I will pop by again, I come along occasionally to see mum.

You are a lucky girl, Jean, I hope things continue to go well for you.

Your friend

Ruth."

As there seemed to have been no fallout from Ruth's visit Jean felt safe in her assumption that she did have a friend in Ruth.

She folded the dry nappies, put the ironing pile to one side to be dealt with and smiled to herself. Ruth was right, she was a lucky girl.

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Thomas wandered slowly into the kitchen, holding a letter and grimacing at it.

"Problem, Dr Blake?" Jean set the table for lunch.

"Lucien," he waved the paper, "he's going to Malaysia, Singapore to be exact."

"Oh," she waited to be enlightened.

"I don't like it, Jean," he sat down and sighed, "there are rumblings in Europe, and they are building a naval base in Singapore, countries are getting jittery again."

"I'm sure he'll be alright, doctor," she placed a bowl of vegetable soup in front of him and pushed the bread over, "though what they need a doctor at a naval base for I don't know."

"Quite, Jean," he dipped a piece of bread into the soup, "they will have their own facility, they must be bringing more forces in."

"Would you like to come with me to Mass, on Sunday," she hated to see him worry about his son, in spite of their angry words in the past the letters came often enough for them to start to heal the rift. While she knew he wasn't a frequent or regular church goer, perhaps it would help calm him.

"I might just do that," he smiled a little, "two prayers can't hurt, can they?"

"No, indeed," she saw him relax a little. She paid little attention to the goings on in the wider world, Ballarat had its own little issues for him to deal with. She felt safe in this corner of the world.

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The Beazley farm was sold. Jean's in laws came to tell her they were moving, out towards Bendigo. They sat and had tea with her - Dr Blake had not accepted an apology for Ruth visiting and said the any of her friends were welcome as long as it was at a sensible time of day, and she must offer tea and biscuits as she wished to do.

"We would like to keep in touch with you, dear," Mrs Beazley snr smiled, "we shall send you our address, perhaps you will write?"

"I will," Jean smiled, it wasn't them that had 'done her wrong', she mused, "and I shall try and send pictures of Mary, if you would like that."

"We would, Jean," she sighed, "we are very sorry, for Christopher's behaviour ..."

"Part of it is my fault, Mrs Beazley," Jean blushed, "I should have been stronger."

"Christopher could be manipulative, Jean," Mr Beazley frowned, "don't blame yourself. Look after Mary, she is your priority, and you seem to have a settled place here ..."

"I have," Jean nodded, "Dr Blake is a kind and generous employer."

"Good," he stood up, "well, we had better be off," he turned and looked at his wife, "come, dear, Jean will likely have work to do and Mary to see to."

"These are for you, well for Mary," Mrs Beazley handed her a parcel, "I hope you can use them."

The parcel felt soft and Jean concluded her mother in law had been knitting, whatever they were would be lovely.

"Thank you."

Jean watched them head out of her life and sighed. It wasn't just her Christopher had hurt, it was them too. She hoped wherever he was he was missing some of his old life, friends and family, but he would not be allowed back into hers. In seven months time, she would ask Dr Blake to help her secure a divorce and annulment on the grounds he had deserted her and had no intention of fulfilling the vows he made in church. She may never marry again, well, so be it, she had Mary, a good position - things could have been a lot worse, a lot worse indeed.


	3. Chapter 3

This chapter jumps just over a year.

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It had been a hard decision to make and an even harder process to go through. Obtaining a divorce from the civil part of her marriage to Christopher had been relatively straightforward. Dr Blake had taken her to see his lawyer and they had put the case to him.

"Christopher left me three months before our daughter was born," she sat in the office with said daughter on her knee, chewing a teething ring, "he had no intentions of staying. He resented being made to marry me, by his father, but he didn't want his grandchild to grow labelled a ...yes, well," she cleared her throat, "but it was doomed from the start. I tried, really. Cooked his meals, did his laundry, kept the cottage clean, accepted his attentions, but he went out of an evening, took the housekeeping ..."

Dr Blake had already told him what he knew but he had to hear it from the wronged wife himself. From what he could see the boy had been an idiot, she had agreed she should have been stronger, but such things can't be helped, when faced with a good looking, persuasive boy. Now she sat here, having made a life for herself, which the lawyer thought was remarkably brave and resilient of her, but it was time to move on. She had no suitors, there was no man waiting in the wings to take her as his bride, but that didn't mean she had to stay tied to Christopher.

"How long has he been gone, Mrs Beazley?" he asked.

"Fourteen months," Jean replied, "I haven't heard from his since that night he walked out, and we have tried to find him."

"What steps have you taken?"

"Well, his father tried the military, Dr Blake has asked people he knows in Melbourne, because that's where he seemed to be headed, even put an advertisement in the paper."

"And?"

"Nothing," she bit her lip.

"Friends?"

"They keep their eyes out, just in case," she sniffed, "but he won't come back to Ballarat, they are all a bit protective of me and Mary."

"I see," he smiled.

So the wheels were set turning, with no Christopher to argue his case there was little to be done but grant the divorce. When asked what she would do if he reappeared, she had simply said she would still go ahead with the petition, though it be against her church's teachings.

"If he really had wanted to make a go of it he would have written, or phoned, but he didn't so I can only draw one conclusion."

"Quite."

Persuading the church to grant her an annulment was not so easy. The priest, Father Morton, still relatively young and idealistic, insisted on Jean writing down all that had happened in her marriage, including the reasons for marrying Christopher.

It took her nearly a week, and much scrunching up of paper. She shed many tears on Dr Blake's shoulder, the only time he touched her apart from patting her arm occasionally, and took out her frustration on her gardening. Digging shrubs up and replanting them, and adding new plants to the borders. Dr Blake didn't mind a bit, when she had finished the gardens looked better than they had for years. Finally she presented her petition and waited to hear from whoever would pronounce on her case.

The phone rang, disturbing the afternoon quiet. Jean was tending to her begonias, the only houseplant she could keep going. The garden plants were easier and she had a thriving vegetable garden, but anything in the house or sunroom usually died, except the begonias. Mary was down for a nap and the doctor was on hospital rounds.

"Dr Blake's surgery," she wiped her hands on her apron. It was Father Morton.

"Mrs Beazley," he confirmed, "could you come to the house tomorrow, the Bishop wants to talk to you, about your annulment."

"Oh, er yes," she sat down, "I suppose so," she wondered if Dr Blake would mind, "what time?"

"Ten thirty."

Jean knew that ten thirty meant just that, "I will have to bring Mary with me," she told him, "I hope that's alright."

"I suppose so," he sighed, small children were not his province, except to baptise them. He'd baptised Mary, at the doctor's insistence.

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"Jean is a member of the church, would you deny her this if her husband was deceased?"

"Er well, no," Father Morton had relented, there were many reasons, he supposed, for a spouse to be absent from his, or her, child's baptism.

"Good," Thomas had slapped his hands on his knees, "we shall see you in church, I am Mary's godfather."

Godmothers had been harder to choose, not because Jean was trying not to offend people, but because she had few female friends she felt she could ask. In the end she had asked Ruth, who, true to her word, had 'popped' round to see her whenever she was in Ballarat. She left it at that.

Mary had been as well behaved as any baby having cool water trailed over her head, but had settled in her mother's arms.

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Jean would tell Thomas at dinner, perhaps he would accompany her, though, if she was to do some shopping before hand, perhaps not. Walking round Ballarat together, with a baby in a pram, who knew what kind of gossip that would start?

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"Shall I meet you there, Jean?" he asked, when she told him of the phone call, "it is, of course, entirely up to you, I'm sure you can fight your own battles with the bishop."

"It's very kind of you doctor," she was relieved at his suggestion, "I was going to combine it with putting in orders at the butchers and greengrocers, first."

"Excellent," he grinned, "nothing like being organised."

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Jean made sure she was looking respectable, for the bishop. Over the months she had spent working for Dr Blake she had put her needlework skills to good use, and no longer looked like the poor farm girl she had been. Now she had appropriate dresses and skirt and blouses for every occasion, including funerals and serious occasions! She chose a blue and white polka dot dress with slightly puffed short sleeves, a white round collar, fitted to her slim waist and mid calf length flared skirt. She teamed it with white gloves and a hat with a neat brim and matching trim. She dressed Mary in a blue sailor dress pleated from the shoulders in navy blue, the collar edged in white, as were the short sleeves and a line of white two inches above the hem. White socks and her first pair of shoes, also white, a blue ribbon in her hair, she looked the picture of innocent babyhood.

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She placed her orders at the greengrocers and butchers and headed towards the priest's house, trying to look unconcerned, as if she was out for a walk with her baby. Nell Clasby stopped her and admired Mary.

"She's growing fast, Jean," she smiled and chucked the baby under her chin. Mary giggled obligingly.

"She is, Miss Clasby," Jean smiled, Nell and Agnes Clasby had been so good to her, always a friendly word and a smile or a pat on the cheek for Mary, "but then she eats just about everything I put in front of her."

"Good, nice to hear," Miss Clasby laughed. "Now, where are we heading today? the Botanical Gardens?"

"Er, no, I have to see the bishop," Jean drew in a long breath.

"What on earth do you need to see that dried up old prune for, dear girl?" she huffed, obviously he had upset Miss Clasby in the past, Jean thought.

"I, um," she blushed, "about the annulment of my marriage," she lowered her voice.

"Oh my dear, I'm sorry," Nell gasped, "I shouldn't be so nosy."

"It's alright, it's bound to come out," Jean sighed resigned. "I had to write everything down, now I have to see if the bishop will agree."

"If he doesn't?" Nell fell into step with her.

"I have a civil divorce, so, legally I am free to marry again, just not in the church," Jean shrugged her shoulders.

"I shall have words with that bishop," Nell huffed, "he's a proper stuffed shirt, always was, should be pickled."

By the time they reached the gate Jean was giggling at Nell's suggestions for preserving the bishop, Jean didn't dare ask what he had done to upset her, but it had had a profound effect on her.

"Thank you, Miss Clasby," Jean grinned, "I see Dr Blake is waiting for me, I expect he'll give the bishop a piece of his mind too."

"Good luck, my dear," Miss Clasby whispered and patted her arm as she turned and walked away.

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Jean suppressed a smile when she saw the bishop, dried up old prune, Nell had called him. He was a small man made smaller by the black of his cassock and the large cross hanging round his neck. He didn't smile when she entered with the doctor, Mary on her hip. Dr Blake put his hand in the small of her back, gently urging her forward and reminding her he was there to support her.

"Mrs Beazley, doctor," Father Morton stood up and waved at two chairs, "please take a seat."

Jean sat down and settled Mary on her lap, giving her a string of beads to play with. Dr Blake sat next to her, the bishop hummed.

"Well, Mrs Beazley," the bishop started, "you wish to have your marriage annulled?"

"Yes, Your Excellency," she sat straight, she was not going to be cowed by him.

"You would deprive your daughter of a father?"

"He did that, sir, when he walked out before she was born," Jean reminded him, of her testimony, "and never sent word of where he was or what he was doing."

"What did you do to make him leave?"

"That's right, make it my fault," she snapped back, "I washed and cleaned for him, never refused him, even if he was drunk, or smelt of another woman's perfume, I kept his house, was frugal when I shopped, tended his bruises from his fights ..."

Dr Blake kept his smile to himself, he liked this Jean, as long as it wasn't aimed at him, but it was good she was standing up for herself, and, yes, why was it always the woman's fault? The trouble with Catholic priests was they weren't married, so what would they know?

Mary looked up at her, wide eyed at her mother's sharp tone, "mama?"

"It's alright, sweetie," she soothed, "mama's just a bit cross." She tightened her arm around her a little, and kissed her curls.

The bishop gave a derisory sniff. Ordinarily this type of thing would be dealt with in his office in Melbourne with a panel of other senior members of the church. They had deliberated together and he was seeing Father Morton on another matter, so it was convenient to see the woman here.

"I see," he muttered, "well, I suppose we'd better grant the annulment, you are not intending to marry again?"

"Not at the moment," she huffed, "I have no one in mind."

"Right," he handed her an envelope, one of the long type that usually held legal documents, "you are free from him, now, the marriage never existed, Defect of Contract, he never intended to enter into a lifelong commitment."

"Thank you," Jean reached over for the envelope and handed it to Dr Blake, who tucked it into his inside pocket. "I admit we should never have married, _would_ never have married if circumstances had been different, but, I did intend to stand by my vows." She knew if she had done, if Christopher had stayed she would have been miserable to the end of her days, but that would have been the penance for becoming pregnant out of wedlock.

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"Thank you, Dr Blake," she put his dinner on the table, his favourite rabbit casserole, with cream in the sauce, "for being there, today."

"Jean, there are times I despair of our church, their constant belief that it is always the woman that is wrong," he poured her a glass of white wine, "but, there again, it is run by single men." He grinned.

"You are a wicked man, Thomas Blake," she teased, a weight having been lifted off her shoulders. True Ballarat would know she was a divorced woman, which carried its own shame, though not for her, for her it was a release from a dark shadow that was always in the background. She would be talked about, but it would die down, eventually. She wouldn't be the only divorcee in town.

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Jean knew she was being watched, by the ladies in Ballarat, as she went about her shopping, or walking in the Botanic gardens with Mary. There were whispers, about her being a divorced mother. She knew they were looking to see if she was particularly close to any of the single men in the town. The single men that cared about her, were old friends, would speak, it would be rude not to but, Matthew Lawson in his police constable's uniform could only be seen touching his cap and wishing her good day, Bill Hobart would nod as he passed her, on duty. Patrick Tyneman would stare at her back, letting his eyes rove down to her bottom, before being dragged away by his mother, or his father, as they hissed to keep away from women like her. Patrick liked Jean, most of his age group did. Oh yes, she was slim and pretty, but most of them knew, accepted that she was unlikely to make the same mistake again. It was their parents' generation that tutted about her, saw her as easy. Some couldn't understand why the Clasby ladies were so friendly with her, there again, Agnes had been to Russia ... and who knew what she had done there!

Jean wasn't worried, really, she had other things to concern her.

Dr Blake was now having a Melbourne newspaper delivered, with more international news in it. He was even more worried about Lucien, whose letters were becoming few and far between from Singapore.

In order to support the doctor she had listened as he explained about the rise of certain factions in Europe, how he didn't trust the German chancellor, Herr Hitler, his totalitarian state.

"War is on its way, Jean," he sighed one evening, "mark my words."

"What about this base in Singapore?" she asked, "will your son be affected?"

"I expect so, Japan is an ambitious empire," he twirled his whisky glass in his hand, staring into the amber liquid. "That aside, he is a member of the army, he will have to go wherever they want him to."

"What do his letters say?"

"Not much, I expect there is only so much he is allowed to put in them, now," he looked over at her and she could see the tears in his eyes, "he is well, that he does say, there are endless rounds of social occasions, trying to keep the Malays on side, I suppose. He sounds happy, so I suppose I should be grateful for that."

Jean knew he would rather Lucien had come home to join the practice, but now it looked like that was unlikely to happen, for some considerable time. The last war hadn't affected her or her parents, really. She hadn't lost brothers or uncles to it, and she had only been five years old when it ended. The war to end all wars; now it seemed that wasn't true.

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Matthew caught up with Jean as she came out of the florists one morning.

"Jean," he stood at the far end of the pram, not wanting to be seen apparently with her and compromise her position, "Jean, glad I've seen you. I'm moving, to Melbourne."

"Melbourne?" she raised her eyebrows.

"Yeah, St Kilda," he shoved his hands in his pockets, "experience, city policing, may get a promotion out of it, one day."

"Oh, well, good luck then, Matthew," she held out her hand, though she would have rather kissed his cheek.

"If you have any trouble, Bill'll be around," he smiled, "he says he's happy here, he'll take promotion if it comes."

"Call and say goodbye to the doctor," she whispered, "he's in this afternoon, very light surgery."

"Right, ok, will do," he stuttered, "suppose I'd better let him know he's losing a patient."

"He likes you, Matthew, and you were Lucien's friend, at school."

"Yeah," Matthew nodded and resumed patrol along the street.

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Jean left Matthew and the doctor in the living room, while she went to lift Mary from her nap. She was going to miss him, he had looked out for her since before she caught with Mary, which was why Christopher had suggested he might be the baby's father. But he had always been a friend, just that, someone she could rely on if the going got tough. Things were changing, even in Ballarat, and she and Dr Blake would have to change with them, she supposed.

Mary was standing holding the sides of the cot, waiting patiently for her mama. She held out her arms for her and giggled when she was swung high and round into her mother's arms.

"Come on Sunny," she kissed her cheek, "let's make you comfortable and you can go and say hello to Uncle Matthew."

She took the only slightly damp nappy off her and pointed her toward the bathroom. Sunny toddled off to find her potty, Jean was pleased with her progress in this area, it made life easier for both of them.

"Mama, done," the little tot called, and waited for Jean to go and wipe her down and pull her little pants up.

"You are such a clever little girl, Sunny," she emptied and cleaned the potty, washed her and the child's hands, and they went downstairs to see 'doc doc' which is what she called Dr Blake, an approximation of 'doctor'. She had never heard the word 'daddy' or 'dada' in the context of a man close to her, so had never embarrassed Jean by applying it to Thomas.

While Sunny could crawl up the stairs, Jean preferred to carry her down and set her on the floor at the bottom. Sunny toddled into the living room straight up to the doctor, arms wide for a hug.

"Hello, poppet," he smiled, "nice nap?"

"Nap," she nodded and took the biscuit he offered.

Matthew watched him interact with her, and the sadness in his eyes that implied he missed Lucien, and his childhood, more than he would admit. Thomas had told Matthew what Lucien was doing, that he was in Singapore and how worried he was.

"I'm just glad we can write," he sighed, "that we are no longer quite so much at loggerheads. I can't change the past, Matthew, what I did. I thought it was for the best, maybe I was wrong, but I am proud of the man he has become, and maybe, just maybe, one day he will come home."

"I'm sure he will, doc," Matthew agreed, "when he's ready."

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 **Singapore:**

Captain Lucien Blake was, as usual, surrounded by women, he seemed to charm all the fairer sex near and not so near, him. He flattered them, danced with them and made sure they had a drink when they weren't dancing. He could flirt with them in French, which had them giggling, and made every woman feel she was his. He was careful who he slept with, avoiding daughters, and wives, of more senior officers, confining such attentions to sisters of said officers, or those of junior officers, the odd chambermaid or female relations of embassy staff. He made sure there would be no offspring of such liaisons and always left them satisfied, wanting more but not in a position to have a male relative call him out. This particular evening he spied a woman, small, Chinese, though dressed in Western style. She was pretty, he thought, didn't appear to be with anyone in particular, apart from a much older man, possibly her father. She didn't have a drink in her hand, what a perfect way to affect an introduction.

He lifted a martini from a tray and sauntered over to her. He bowed, respectfully,

"You appear to be without a drink, Miss, may I?" he offered the glass and smiled. Close up he saw she had dark, almost black eyes, her hair, glossy and black, was elegantly styled, she wore a full length gown of gold and burgundy satin. The inset of gold on the bodice, from the shoulders, over her breasts and to a point at her waist, gave an illusion of height, as it peeped between the two burgundy panels that were set at the sides. She was not tall, most Chinese women, Lucien had come to know were small, this one was dainty.

She looked at him from under long dark lashes and took the offered drink.

"Thank you, Captain ..." she raised an eyebrow.

"Blake, Lucien Blake, Miss?"

"Chen, Mei Lin," she smiled, "martini, you guessed well, Captain Blake."

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It wasn't long before Lucien and Mei Lin were widely regarded to be 'an item'. Nobody thought anything of it, her father was happy to entertain the handsome Australian Captain and the top brass could only see positive things. Mr Chen was an important man in Singapore, with his import business, his ways of dealing with government to the advantage of the British forces there. It was all to the good if Captain Blake could keep him sweet.

Mr Chen was also pleased that his daughter should ally herself to one such as the Captain. He was cultured, spoke French, had mastered Mandarin, and, if his plan went the way he wanted it to, Mei Lin, would be safe from the Japanese who were, he felt, encroaching on his world just a little too much. Oh yes, Mr Chen was very hopeful.

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It was obvious to Lucien, when he first took Mei Lin to bed, that he wasn't her first. He didn't much care who that person was, he wasn't really hoping for a shy retiring virgin, and she showed him much in bed. They were discreet, it wouldn't do for it to be widely known that they were more than 'courting'. Mei Lin was used to a certain standard of living and she was sure Lucien could provide this for her. She knew his father had a doctor's practice in his hometown, that could be lucrative, and socially quite good, but, top rank in the army would be preferable.

When he proposed, he didn't promise her the moon, or a small practice in Australia, but the very best he could offer was to keep her in the style to which she was accustomed. He didn't think his father would be too happy, marrying out of his race, but, while they had built bridges in their relationship, Lucien had no intention of returning to such a small life as he saw it.

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The wedding was small, well as small as Mr Chen would allow. Lucien chose his best friend, Captain Derek Alderton to be his best man. Mei Lin had tried to persuade him to chose someone else but on this one thing he was not to be turned. He and Derek were like brothers, at the time, and he couldn't get married without him.

"What have you got against him, darling?" he licked her earlobe, nuzzling into her hair.

"Nothing, really, he's perfectly gentlemanly," she bit her lip against the giggle, "I suppose, as he is your best friend ..."

She wasn't going to get anywhere on the subject and now, with his hands skilfully removing her dress, she had other things to do!

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Mei Lin excused herself from her new husband, saying she was just going to powder her nose. Lucien was deep in conversation with her father, on the merits of Chinese medicine, which Lucien had become very interested in. She stood on the balcony of the embassy, breathing in the cooler air. It was stifling in the Reception and although her dress was light silk and lace she was still too warm.

"So, the blushing bride," a voice startled her.

"Derek," she turned and gave a little smile, "I just needed some fresh air."

"Lucien should be keeping an eye on you," he murmured, far too close for a best friend of the groom.

"He is talking to my father," she dipped her head, "but his best man is here."

"Indeed I am, Mei Lin," he moved closer and pulled the door closed and the curtain round them. "So, Mei Lin Blake," he cupped her face with his hand and bent down to place a light kiss on her lips. "I take it he doesn't know."

"No," she breathed, "and he won't." She parted her lips and allowed him to deepen the kiss, "unless you tell him."

He pushed her against the wall and hitched her dress up, finding the top of her stockings and the hem of her cami-knickers. He slipped his fingers inside, she wasn't quite ready, but she would be, soon enough. She lifted her leg round his waist, quite high for her, given she was quite a bit shorter than both men, and he lifted her up with one hand. She was now wet and ready for him.

"God, Derek, please," she grunted into his shoulder, and, hoping he could hold her moved her hands down to undo the buttons on his trousers and free his hardness from his shorts. He pushed her knickers aside and thrust on up into her, grunting with every stroke.

"Hope you remembered your diaphragm," he grunted as she arched and he spilled his seed into her.

"Of course I did," she hit his shoulder, "a girl must always be prepared. Anyway, I don't want children, just yet."

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"Hello, darling," Lucien turned to see her returned to him, "alright?"

"Yes, thank you," she smiled and touched his hand, "it was nice and cool out there."

To look at her he would never guess she had just had sex with his best man, Lucien had a lot to learn.

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Jean sorted the post, as she did every day. There was one from her in laws, they kept in touch more than her parents did. Her mother had still not shed the shame of having her daughter firstly have to get married, then be deserted and then, horror of horrors had divorced the absent husband. Mrs Randall couldn't bring herself to even talk about her daughter, see her, had even changed to another doctor in town. Jean's father was a little more 'relaxed'.

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"Seriously, love," he looked at her across the kitchen table, "she has made a life, for herself and Mary, the doctor thinks very highly of her ..."

"How do you know?" she glared at him.

"I saw him, in town," Mr Randall pushed a forkful of stew into his mouth, "he just happened to mention that Jeannie is such a help, and a lovely girl."

"Huh!" she huffed back, "made her bed ..."

"I know," he sighed, Jean was their only child and although she had fallen wrong, he still loved her, "but, love," he reached across for her hand, "she is our daughter."

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There was a letter from Singapore, from Lucien, it had to be. Even Jean had begun to look forward to these letters. They may not be exciting to the doctor but they were a window on another part of the world, for her. Dr Blake included her in looking at the letters, telling her what his son was up to and how he felt about it. What Jean didn't realise was that her understanding of both father and son, drawn from her own life, calmed him and helped him see Lucien as a man, a gifted doctor and a force for good in the world.

The letter seemed to have something other than the usual airmail paper, thin and light, perhaps a card, for Christmas, it was fast approaching. Mary's second festive season. She didn't really remember the first, though she played with the toys Matthew and Bill had sent, the doctor had given her, and the Clasby ladies had kindly sent.

She left the post in the study and went to open the one from Mr and Mrs Beazley. She had written to them as soon as she had been granted the annulment, to say how sorry she was but that she had to move on with her life. She also told them she bore Christopher no ill will, and hoped that, wherever he was, he was happy.

"Dear Jean," Mrs Beazley had written,

"I'm so glad you wrote to tell us of your decision. Do I blame you? No. We are still trying to find Christopher, but he seems to have fallen off the edge of the globe. We both have so many regrets, but we are still so glad you came into our lives. He is the one who is missing out.

Thank you for the last photograph of Mary, she is so like you.

Best wishes from both of us,

Esther Beazley."

Jean was happy to get letters from her mother in law, she was always the voice of reason, and so generous with the little cardigans for Mary.

Jean had a card to send to them, with yet another picture of Mary. Thank goodness Dr Blake had so kindly given her a camera for Christmas last year. She had, at first, been embarrassed at such an extravagant gift.

"Nonsense, Jean," he had smiled, "you do an awful lot for me, and others, and you have a child, you need to record all her little steps." To prove it he had found a few of Lucien as a baby and she had told him he was beautiful, all blond curls and blue eyes. Well, the colours he had to tell her, but she could see a face full of mischief and cheek.

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Jean was just finishing preparing lunch when Dr Blake shouted and came scurrying through.

"Jean! It's Lucien!" he stopped abruptly before he tripped over Mary, who was toddling round the kitchen. "He's got married!"

"Married? Good heavens!" she put the plates on the table, "when?"

"Six weeks ago, she's ... Jean ... she's Chinese!"

Jean pulled out a chair and sat him down, handed him a glass of water and waited for him to get his breath.

"He says he loves her," he gasped, and thrust the letter at her.

"Well," she mused, "that's a surprise."

"Jean," Thomas could barely speak, a Chinese daughter in law, how could he? "I don't understand, why didn't he tell me he was courting, ask my view."

"Thomas," she sat down, not quite sure how to handle this. Obviously Thomas Blake didn't like the idea of this woman marrying his son.

"Chinese," he whispered, shaking his head, "why?"

"He says he loves her," Jean reminded him, scanning over the letter and photograph, "she is quite pretty," she hummed.

"Hm?"

"Have you looked at the photograph?"

"What?"

"Have you seen the way she looks at him?" she passed the photograph to him, "she loves him."

He took the picture and gazed at it. Lucien, tall and proud in full uniform, on his arm, a small woman, dark hair pulled into a complicated design to the side and back of her head, a pretty white dress, long sleeved, sweetheart neckline, fitted to the waist, just above the ankle at the front falling to a train at the back. She wore no veil, but a simple clip in her hair and she was gazing up at him with pure adoration.

"Dr Blake," she sighed, "Lucien has married for love, I believe you did the same ..."

"Yes, but my wife, Genevieve, was European, not ... not an Oriental."

"Are you telling me," she felt affronted on the woman's behalf, "that because he has chosen a Chinese woman for his wife ..."

He turned and looked at her and suddenly realised what he was doing - exactly what his family had done when he had married a Frenchwoman.

"Jean, I'm sorry, it's just such a shock," he lifted Mary from the floor where she was currently pulling at his socks, "I never thought he would marry someone so ... so ..."

"Different?"

"Yes." He heaved a big sigh.

"He has married for love, apparently," Jean repeated, "not because he has got her pregnant, not to 'do the right thing' but because he wants to. I know it's difficult, to accept a marriage like this but if you don't then ... you could lose him again ...and any potential grandchildren."

"I hope Ballarat is ready for them," he muttered, stroking the chestnut brown curls of Mary, sitting happily on his knee.

"Well," she stood up and went to get the rest of the meal, from the side, "we shall have to be there for him, as you ... and Matthew and Bill have been for me."

They continued to talk about Lucien and his new wife, and eventually Jean persuaded Thomas that there was nothing he could do about it, that the best thing he could do was send his congratulations in a Christmas card, wish them well and say he hoped to meet her when Lucien's duties with the army allowed. He admitted he wasn't sure about the last bit but Jean assured him that by the time that happened he would have got used to the idea.


	4. Chapter 4

Thank you for the kind review of this alternative version of how the Blake and Beazley family stories become one.

This chapter moves through the timescale in chunks, Thomas was not the same type of police surgeon as Lucien was, as we know from Matthew's remarks during the show so long cases are not relevant, making it a more domestic story.

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Nothing much of note happened over the next few months. Thomas explained all that was going on in Europe, it terrified her, the factions taking over. The situation in Singapore worried him more, if Europe descended into war, then the East, particularly Japan would become forceful - was how he put it.

"It's Lucien, Jean," he ran his hand over his increasingly sparse fair hair, "he and Mei Lin, he thinks she's expecting, what about the child?"

"From what you tell me about him," she soothed him, "and what Matthew said about him sticking up for the little man at school, against the bullies, he will make sure they will be alright. Somehow." Though she had no idea how.

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 **Singapore:**

Captain Blake, while overjoyed at the prospect of fatherhood was almost as worried as his father. Being in the heart of Malaysia he felt every move, heard every utterance of dissent, rumour and conjecture, and he was concerned for the well being of his wife and unborn child. He had suggested he send her somewhere safer.

"Such as?" she had questioned, "I should be by your side, husband."

"By my side may well be in battle, darling," he held her close, "and that is not where I want my wife and child to be."

"You are over dramatising," she huffed, "nothing will happen."

He wasn't so sure, and wondered how easy it would be, should it become necessary, to get them both to safety, Australia, Ballarat, his father. Steady old reliable dad, but, he seemed to have softened. Lucien had thought he would be cut off without a shilling when he announced his marriage to a Chinese woman, but it would seem not. He knew his father had a new housekeeper, a Mrs Beazley, perhaps she was keeping him in line. Lucien imagined a stern, large woman, with a rolling pin permanently attached to her hand. He knew nothing about the woman and his father had not seen fit to enlighten him, save she was a good cook, kept the place spotless and organised his practice and his patients. Lucien made a mental note not to cross her, if ever they should meet.

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While Lucien was worrying about Mei Lin's safety, always insisting she be escorted when she went out for a walk, her father, his friend, Derek Alderton or a group of service wives, she was preparing for the birth of their baby. New nursery equipment, interviewing for a nanny which Lucien didn't understand, his mother had raised him, cooked, cleaned, painted and been a wife to his father, without a nanny, he thought Mei Lin should be the one to feed and clothe their child. But, she had been raised by a nanny and it would mean she would be able to attend the army functions without worrying who was going to look after the baby.

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Thomas was busy with an autopsy. A young man had been beaten to death and his body dumped into Lake Wendouree. That was all he could say. There was no readable identification in his wallet and nobody had reported a fair haired man missing. He mused about it at the lunch table with Jean.

"Wet paper, you say," Jean pursed her lips. "In a clump?"

"Stuck inside his wallet," Thomas nodded, "Bill daren't pull it out and if he did it would probably fall apart."

"Can I see it?" she asked, "maybe ..."

"I suppose it wouldn't do any harm, let me ring Bill and ask him to run it over."

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Senior Constable Bill Hobart had no idea why the doc would want the boy's wallet at home. Without a half decent Inspector at the helm he just shrugged his shoulders and headed over to the house.

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Jean put a slice of cake and a cup of tea in front of Bill and took the wallet out of the evidence bag. She held it between forefinger and thumb and looked round it. It was wet, slimy leather. She placed it on a newspaper and picked up the tweezers she usually used for makeup purposes and started to ease out a bundled of notes. She used the tweezers to separate two pound notes and a ten shilling note and lie them on the newspaper. Then she eased out the driving license - not an Australian one. It was a piece of paper, folded in two with blackletter script.

"Not an Australian," the doctor hummed, "German."

"Oh," Jean gasped, "Oh, don't tell me he was killed because of his country of birth, oh, doctor, that's awful."

"There have been murmurings," Thomas sighed, sadly. "Whatever the papers print is believed, and some will try to rid the town of a perceived threat. Jean," he reached over and patted her hand, "you've worked out the why, now it's up to Bill and the boys to work out the who." He turned to Mary who was sitting watching her mother with awe, "very clever, your mama, Sunny," he smiled, "very clever indeed."

"Yay! mama!" she clapped her little hands together.

"Yay, mama, indeed," Bill grinned. "Thanks, Jean," he stood up, "I'll get this down to the boss, and see if we can find out who was seen with him on the night he was killed."

"Now then, Jean," Dr Blake stood up, "I don't want to lose you to the police force, but, you are going to be in demand for solving some of their riddles."

"Don't worry, doctor," she laughed, "I'm quite happy here, but if you need any help ..."

"Right," he smiled, "best get ready for surgery, do I expect one or other of the Clasby ladies?"

"Nell, today," she nodded, "just a check up, so she says."

"Lovely," he patted Sunny's head, "she's in perfect health, you know, I think she's keeping an eye on one of us."

"Doctor!" Jean was shocked.

"Not in that way," he hastened to put her at her ease, "more to make sure neither of us are being targeted by the gossips."

Jean relaxed, visibly, "right, well, I do hear whispers, as you know, doctor, but they aren't too bad. Just mild inferences."

"You would tell me, wouldn't you?" he looked concerned, "if there were rumblings ..."

"I would," she agreed, "now, all your patient notes are on your desk ..."

"Then I shall go and see what we have."

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And so, life in Ballarat went on. The men who had beaten up the young German boy were found, boasting about it after another report in the paper about his country of birth. How they would like to get their hands on the 'bloody krauts' and show them how democracy worked. Bill and a couple of other coppers, one a sergeant Doug Ashby, hauled them in and said they would show them how democracy and justice worked in Australia and promptly had them charged with murder and sent to be tried in Melbourne.

"Can't have that kind of attitude here," Dr Blake grumbled one evening the following week.

"Quite," Jean nodded, glad that he saw things that way, as his daughter in law was Chinese.

"We are a young country Jean," he sipped his whisky, "built with the help of immigrants, those that have left their mother countries for a better life."

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Mary knew what birthdays were, now. A bright and inquisitive three year old she bounced into her mother's bedroom that morning and leapt onto the bed.

"Mama! Mama!" she pulled the covers down, "wake up!"

Jean turned and grinned, "boo!" she laughed and grabbed her daughter and tickled her.

"Happy birthday, darling Sunny," she kissed her, "how grown up you are."

"Breakfast, mama!" she tugged on her arm.

Jean stood and took her robe off the back of the door, pink candlewick, soft and comforting, she would wrap Mary up in it when she felt sad or tired.

"Come on then," she held out her hand, "wash, dress then pancakes this morning?"

"Yes please," Mary nodded emphatically, pancakes were her favourite.

Somehow the morning wash was completed more quickly than usual. Jean saw to Mary and sent her back to her room to dress, her clothes had been set out the night before, while she strip washed and cleaned her teeth.

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Dressed in a green day dress printed with white flowers, a white collar and short sleeves, her hair brushed and make-up lightly applied, Jean went to fetch her daughter and see if she needed any help.

Mary was sitting on the floor pulling on her socks, the buttons on her butter yellow dress fastened, adrift by one. Jean smiled, picked her up and sat her on the bed.

"Let's sort out these buttons, shall we?" she smiled and tidied her up, then brushed the chestnut curls and tied the front off her face with a ribbon bow. "Off you go," Jean patted her bottom and watched her trot out of the room and down the stairs.

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On the table in the kitchen were Mary's birthday gifts and cards, all wrapped in pretty paper.

"Now, you can open them while I make your pancakes and the doctor's bacon and eggs," Jean filled the kettle, "would you like hot chocolate this morning?"

"I'd like pancakes, Jean," a voice from the kitchen door floated over the sound of presents being unwrapped, "if it isn't too much trouble?"

"Good morning, Dr Blake," Jean turned from her task, "and of course you can have pancakes, can't he Sunny?"

"Good morning, doc-doc," Mary grinned up at him, "yes, you can."

"Happy birthday, miss," Thomas bent and kissed her cheek, "a whole three years old, quite the young lady."

"Thank you for my present, doc-doc," Mary smiled shyly, holding up a book of fairy tales with beautiful illustrations, "will you read it to me ... pleeease." She tipped her head and opened her blue-green eyes wide.

"At bedtime," he patted her cheek, "perhaps." She was the image of her mother, and got more like her every day, he was happy to note.

Jean had given her a baby doll, she had seen one when they were shopping and had gazed in the shop window every time they passed. It had moulded hair and blue eyes that closed when it was laid down. She wore a red gingham dress with white frills on the hem and sleeves, a white bonnet and white socks and shoes. Jean had also made a second outfit that was the same as the one Mary was wearing.

"Oh, mama," Mary breathed, "my own baby. She's lovely, thank you." She slipped off her chair and went to wrap her arms round her mother's legs, "I love you mama."

Jean put down the whisk and picked her up, "I love you too, darling, very much," there were tears in her eyes as she hugged her tight and kissed her. "Now, back to the table with you," she set her down on her feet, "open the rest of your presents while I make these pancakes."

Mary did as she was told and opened a packet of her favourite sweets with five shillings taped it, from Agnes and Nell Clasby. The money would go in her money box that doc-doc had given her for Christmas and she may be allowed a sweetie later in the day, if she was well behaved.

Mary's friends were, for the most part, children of the doctor's patients and a couple had been invited to tea with her, to help her celebrate her special day. Dr Blake had insisted Jean do this, he said he didn't want Mary to be a solitary child and accepted it was difficult for Jean to use the house as she would have used her own, so she needed a little encouragement to feel comfortable when another woman, Ruth or Dorothy Turner, called. He was glad Mrs Turner felt she could come to Jean, her husband was a drunk and a wife beater, and though she hadn't been injured beyond repair she had suffered at his hand. She thought Jean was very brave to divorce Christopher, but as Jean noted he wasn't around to stop her. Privately she thought Dorothy should do the same, and maybe, given Christopher's tendency to get into fights when he had been to the pub, he might have turned on her, as the time went on. She had no regrets, not anymore, she had Mary, a good position and, for the most part, was well thought of in the town.

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Mary's little friends arrived bearing gifts for the birthday girl, a colouring book and some crayons and a ragdoll.

"Thank you," she smiled shyly, "now my baby can have a friend, too."

The children played happily in the garden until Jean took out a picnic tea of sandwiches and biscuits, jelly, and there was a cake with three candles on it. Jean had iced it in white and pink and written, 'Happy Birthday, Mary', on it if fine pink writing. She offered the children, milk, squash or water to drink.

Thomas came out into the garden in time to see Mary blow out her candles and make a wish. Jean poured him some tea and he accepted a piece of the cake.

"Just a small piece, though, Mary," he smiled, "I mustn't spoil my dinner."

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"You know, Jean," Thomas noted over dinner, after Mary had been put to bed, with her doll tucked in beside her, "she is so like you. You should be proud of the way she is growing."

"Thank you, Dr Blake," she smiled, blushing slightly, "I should be grateful she is such an easy child to raise, though I do worry that as she gets older certain traits will emerge."

"I wouldn't worry too much," he smiled, "I don't think that's going to happen, as long as you continue to love her, the way you do."

"Well, let's hope so, but I couldn't love her any more than I do."

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Jean read the paper before she passed it to the doctor, hoping there wouldn't be anything to upset him. He had had a bad bout of flu and she had had to cancel all his surgeries and tell the police that he wasn't available for duties as police surgeon. It had knocked him, sensing his own vulnerability, and worrying about Lucien and his wife, and the baby, due imminently. It disturbed her to see that there were air raid practices in Singapore, in case the Japanese launched an airborne attack. Thomas would worry even more, and there had been a letter that morning, from Singapore. He was sitting in the garden, reading a book and watching Mary play with her dolls. She heaved a sigh and took a tray of tea out, for both of them, and a glass of juice for her daughter.

She set the tray on the little table and he turned to her, a sad smile on his face. He lifted the letter that he had used as a bookmark that morning. He wanted to keep it close.

"Lucien," he shifted into a more comfortable position, "it's a girl. A little early and small, but both she and her mother are well."

"That's good news, doctor," she sat and poured his tea, "so now you're a grandfather."

"I am, aren't I?" his smile broadened, "I should write, is that the paper?"

"Yes," but she didn't pass it over, "Thomas ... Singapore ..."

"I know it's not good, Jean," he held his hand out, "Lucien has said as much, but he can't persuade Mei Lin to consider coming out to us, until things settle down."

"With the baby just born, should she travel?" Jean handed him the paper and put his cup where he could reach it.

"Not immediately, no," he agreed, "but as soon as she can. He is deeply worried about their safety." He put the paper down and sipped his tea. "Jean?" he put the cup down, "if he should be able to persuade her ... your workload ..."

"Don't worry about that, Dr Blake," she reached over and patted his hand, "we have the room, the little one will have a playmate ..."

"Mei Lin is used to a certain standard, staff ..." he pursed his lips, "it worries me she would treat you as a servant, and you are not a servant, you are my housekeeper, yes, and my receptionist and secretary, but you are _not_ a servant."

"Calm down, Thomas," she was worried about him, he wasn't a young man and the current flu epidemic was a bad one, "we shall cross that bridge when we come to it."

"Well, I suppose so," he huffed, "and I better write, give my congratulations, and pass on the offer of a home ... if it is needed."

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 **Singapore:**

Captain Blake cradled his newborn daughter and gazed at her with amazement. She was so tiny, a strip of black hair standing from her forehead to the nape of her neck, huge dark eyes that seemed to take half the space in her sweet little face. Mei Lin was sleeping after a long and hard labour, she had seen and held her baby then handed her to her father, telling him to chose her name.

He would write to his father to tell him and also that he was wondering if, at some point, Mei Lin and ... Li ... that was it, Li, could travel over and stay until the threat was over.

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"No!" Mei Lin snapped, "I am not going to Australia, I want to stay here, where my family are."

"Mei Lin," Lucien ran his hands through his hair, grateful that the nanny had taken Li out for a walk, "it is becoming more dangerous, here. Air raid practices ... the threat of an invasion ... I need to know you are safe, and Li, she relies on us to keep her safe."

"My father will keep us safe, there are shelters, and you are with the army," she huffed, "it is just posturing by the Japanese."

"Even some of the top brass are sending their families home," he reasoned, "I want you to go with them, before it is too late."

"Cowards," she hissed, "weak, I am staying here."

"Then I will send Li to my father and his housekeeper," he folded his arms, "if I can't persuade you to go, she will."

It was now Mei Lin realised she would have to bow to her husband's expectation. She had been raised to obey the man in the family, and though she had continued her affair with Derek Alderton, once she had recovered from Li's birth and after assuring him she was not his child, this was one thing she was not going to acquiesce to.

"Fine," she snapped and left the room, head held high, thinking he would not send such a young child away from her mother.

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Mr Chen had confided in his son in law that Mei Lin could be wilful and he doubted she would ever agree to move to Australia.

"Mr Chen, Fu," Lucien began, "you realise I am suggesting I take your granddaughter away from you, young as she is."

"Lucien, you are brave, strong, I was honoured when you chose my daughter for your wife, and I know she loves you, but," he sipped his jasmine tea, "she will have her way. Send Li, though how, I do not know, she is too young to travel alone."

"Thank you, for your support, Li will travel with another family on the last transport to Australia. They are Major Stanton's wife and her children, so I can trust them. They have said they will deliver Li to my father where she will be well cared for."

"Your father, he knows your wishes?"

"He suggested it, in a roundabout way, when Li was born, that there was a home for both of them, if it became necessary." Lucien reached into his pocket, "he sent a picture, so Li would know him as her grandfather, and one of his housekeeper, who, I have to admit, is not what I expected, so she would know these people are going to keep her safe and loved. I haven't had such a good relationship with my father for a long time, but, since before we married, when I told him I was in Singapore and in the army, we have corresponded, and mended some of the broken bridges."

As Lucien spoke Mr Chen nodded and listened, his business was not as good as it had been, he would not be able to protect his daughter and granddaughter if the Japanese did invade. He looked at the photographs, one of a kindly mature man, with sparking eyes, something had made him laugh when the picture was taken, and the woman, young, not what he would imagine a housekeeper would be, pretty for a western woman, but capable, something in her face told him she also had a smile, that she had held back in the photograph.

"You send Li," he said, cutting off Lucien's now rambling story of his younger years, "send her where she will be safe." He got up and went to a safe he hid behind a decorative plaque in the study of his westernised home, "here," he handed Lucien a bundle of Australian money, "send this with her, to help with her keep."

"Mr Chen," Lucien gasped, "that is not necessary."

"Lucien, it is a gift," he continued to hold out the cash, "it would be rude to refuse, and you are never rude."

Lucien took the money and bowed, not wanting to know why he had so much money that wasn't local currency.

"Don't worry," Mr Chen laughed, "it was always kept for you and Mei Lin, should you ever go over there."

"You are too kind," Lucien put the money in his inside pocket.

"I leave a legacy for my granddaughter," he chuckled, "but she gets it early. Such is life, Lucien."

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Li had already begun to babble, 'papa' more than 'maman', 'nan' for the nanny and Lucien adored her, but he had to let her go. How had nearly a year gone by, with the threat of invasion, the sudden air raid warnings to keep the population on their toes and the manoeuvres, the exercises, to keep the troops on their toes, now he had to let her go, before it was too late. Mei Lin still refused to go, they argued too often and he wondered why she wouldn't see sense, go somewhere safe, take care of their daughter, he even said he would pay for the nanny to go.

"Did you actually want her?" he threw at her one evening, "did you ever want a child?"

"You did," she snapped back, "so I give you what you want, you are my husband, it is my duty."

"Duty be damned, Mei Lin!" he roared, "she is not a commodity you can bargain with, she is our daughter!"

Stalemate.

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Lucien's infrequent letters over Li's first few months told his father nothing of the battles he was having with Mei Lin. He reported Li's firsts, her first smile, the way she reached out for him when he went to her, her giggles, the way her eyes had turned lighter, more like his.

"You would say it is the dominant gene, father," he noted in one of his letters, "it marks her as different, as having western heritage, but they are so clear and knowing, I never thought I would love a child as much as I love Li."

Jean started an album for Thomas, and one for herself for Mary, all the photographs that had been taken were stored in a box, so if she was going to do this for Thomas, why not for herself. She smiled at the differences between the two girls as she dated the pictures, with the ages underneath.

"This is so kind of you, Jean," the doctor poured over the book one evening, "now I can see her progress, there is a look of Lucien about her, mainly the eyes."

"Cheeky, if you don't mind me saying so," Jean agreed, "and her hair is beautiful, so dark."

"Such a contrast," he nodded, "but I do wish she and her mother were over here. It gets more and more frightening, I'm sure they are not safe."

"It's been a year since they started the air raid warnings, hasn't it?" she mused, ruefully.

"Yes, and, as you know, Lucien has not been able to persuade his wife to come to us, but Li, he is worried about her safety."

Jean had thought about this, "if she could be got over to us ... sorry Thomas, it is a silly idea ..."

"Jean, none of your ideas are silly."

"Right, well ..."

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The telegram arrived as Jean was baking bread. Thomas was out at the hospital, Mary was playing in the living room, it was a perfectly normal, usual day.

"SENDING LI WITH MRS STANTON AND CHILDREN STOP ARRIVING MONDAY STOP LUCIEN STOP"

It didn't say what time, or how many children Mrs Stanton would have with her, other than the almost year old Li Blake, or who Mrs Stanton was. Jean tipped the boy and mentally chided herself for reading the doctor's post. But he had said all telegrams were to be opened immediately in case ... and this was 'in case.'

"Mary!" she called into the house, "want to help mama? I'm going to sort out the bedrooms."

"Mama?" Mary poked her nose round the living room door, "what bedrooms?"

"Well, darling," she squatted down in front of her, "there is going to be a little girl staying here for a while, so ... I thought maybe I should move you into the other bedroom and put the cot in there for her. You could share, and maybe you could make friends with her, make her feel at home."

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When Thomas arrived home after his rounds at the hospital, expecting Jean to be in the kitchen, perhaps baking or preparing lunch all he could hear was noises from the upstairs, giggles from Mary and the scraping of furniture. What on earth was she doing? He noticed the telegram propped up on the table and went to read it. Li? on her way, without her mother. Good lord, what was he thinking? He left the paper on the table and went to see how Jean was organising, because he was sure that was what she was doing, organising a place for his granddaughter.

"Here, mama," Mary was holding out one of the soft toys she had had as a baby, "for the little girl."

"Her name is Li, sweetheart," Jean smiled and took the toy, "and that is so kind of you."

"Jean?" Thomas' voice stopped her.

"Oh, Dr Blake, is it that time already?" she pushed a stray lock of hair off her face, "I'm sorry, I'll get you some lunch."

"No, it can wait, what ..." he waved his hand over the scene.

"You saw the telegram?"

He nodded.

"I thought that the girls could share, Li would not be on her own when she woke in the mornings ..."

"... and this room is bigger than the other," he smiled, "excellent idea, thank you. What have you got left to do?"

"Just put Mary's clothes in this chest, some of her things for Li, I don't know how much Mrs Stanton will be able to bring, as she has her children as well ..." she watched for a reaction, that she was intending on dressing his granddaughter in second hand clothes.

He sat on the edge of the bed and ran his hands through his hair, "I wouldn't know what to do, about that, about what she would need."

"I think a dozen spare nappies would be useful, I've used most of Mary's for cloths ..." she put her hands in her apron pocket.

"Whatever you think you need," he sighed, "go and get."

"I think I'll get those when she arrives," she smiled gently, "there are enough for a day or two, and if I were to be seen buying nappies ..." she left the inference hanging and watched his expression turn to one of horror.

"Jean, I never thought, forgive me," he gasped at his stupidity, "I would never put you in such a position."

He was relieved to hear her laugh.

"Now," she finished putting the things away, "what about the Stantons? I have no idea when they are arriving."

"Can you cope, if we ask them to stop over?" he let Mary climb up onto his knee, "I mean, after such a journey ..."

"The guest room, perhaps your son's room for the children ... if you don't mind."

"No, that sounds like a good idea ... can I do anything?"

"Let's have lunch, you have a heavy surgery today, I shall see to the rooms then."

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"Two roasts today?" Thomas' eyebrows rose as he surveyed the amount of food on the table - ham, chicken, potatoes, vegetables; fresh from the garden; and cakes and biscuits cooling on the side.

"Cold cuts for tomorrow," Jean took the white wine from the fridge and handed it to him to remove the cork, "with the visitors arriving sometime I thought it would be easier. I can pick salad things from the garden and children always eat cakes and biscuits."

"Christopher was an idiot, to leave someone as smart as you," he smiled, and raised the bottle before pouring her a glass, "you deserve this."

She blushed, "yes, well," she shrugged and started to serve the dinner.

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 **Singapore:**

"Don't worry, Captain," Mrs Stanton reassured him, "Mrs Blake ... I shall be sure to pass on your messages to your father. Li will be well looked after and the 'gift' will be safe."

"Thank you Mrs Stanton," they both nodded, Mei Lin stroked her daughter's head, "be good for grandpapa," she murmured, suddenly realising it was actually happening, Lucien was separating her from Li. Her father had said it was for the best and had tried to insist she also leave. But, to the last, she refused.

Li looked up from her seat in the stroller and smiled. Lucien swallowed the lump in his throat, who knew how long it would be before he saw her again? He hoped the housekeeper, Mrs Beazley would be kind to her, Li was such a little dot and he had no idea if she had experience of raising children.

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Jean was unable to leave the house, though she had encouraged the doctor to carry on his duties.

"Thomas, it could be evening before they arrive," she passed him his hat, "and you have patients to see, and don't you have the paper work from the last autopsy to finish?"

Mary lifted his medical bag with both hands, "doc-doc," she smiled, "here's your bag."

"I feel as if I am being organised," he laughed.

"You will brood and pace the floor," Jean opened the door and handed him the car keys to the new Riley on the drive, "this will keep your mind occupied, and I have sausage rolls to make."

He shook his head and smiled as he left, perhaps she was right, he was already worried enough. He would telegram Lucien as soon as they arrived to reassure him.

She busied herself in the kitchen, with Mary helping make the sausage rolls and then picking ripened tomatoes from the garden and lettuce for the beginnings of a salad.

They were just thinking of having a spot of lunch, though Mary had nibbled while they baked, when there was a knock at the door.

Jean took her apron off and draped it over a chair , smoothed down her skirt and headed up the hall. Just before she opened the door she took a deep breath. She opened the door to see a very tired looking woman, with two little boys and a little girl on her hip. The taxi driver was taking the suitcases and folded stroller from the car before heading back into town, he waved to Jean and smiled at Mary. Jean smiled back and turned her attention to the visitors.

"Mrs Stanton," she held out her hand, "welcome, I'm Jean Beazley, Dr Blake's housekeeper, please, come in."

Mrs Stanton took her hand and sighed with relief, it had not been an easy journey.

"Mrs Beazley, Captain Blake sent me ..."

"I know," she touched the woman's shoulder sympathetically, "let's get you in, freshened up and fed, we can talk then." Jean's voice was low and soft, soothing. "Mary, why don't you show the boys where they can wash their hands and faces," she turned back to Mrs Stanton, "this is my daughter, Mary, she's three."

"Hello, Mary," Mrs Stanton smiled, "so nice to meet you, Captain ..."

"I know, but I shall explain all in the fullness of time," Jean ushered her into the kitchen while Mary shyly took the two boys upstairs.

Visitors washed and dressed and sitting at the table in the kitchen, Li in Mary's high chair, which had been her father's, next to Mrs Stanton, now fortified with a cup of tea Jean set out lunch for them all.

"The doctor is on his rounds," she explained Thomas' absence , "he will be home directly, but we don't need to wait."

The boys, Ben and Arthur, tucked in with no hesitation and Mary joined them. Li, obviously tired and tearful was persuaded to nibble on some of the vegetables, fruit and cold chicken.

"She's cried most of the time," Mrs Stanton sighed, "mainly for her papa, I think you will have trouble with her."

"She has been sent away from all she knows, and those who love her," Jean nodded, passing the plate of cold meats to her, "we shall weather the storm, we have to, for her sake. The Captain doesn't want to hear stories of her not eating, or crying at night. I have set the cot up for her in a room with Mary, I thought it might help."

"Perhaps," she replied. "My boys have been very good with her, even though their sleep has been disturbed."

"Well, perhaps they will sleep better here, if they don't mind sharing a bed."

"They'll be fine, it is very good of you to put us up."

"We couldn't just take Li and send you on your way ..." she tipped her head to a noise from the hall, "ah, that sounds like Dr Blake," she stood up and excused herself, "please, carry on."

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Thomas hung his hat and coat up and slid his bag to one side. As he turned to head towards the kitchen he noticed a folded up stroller and suitcases tucked in the corner. So, the visitors had arrived.

"Dr Blake," Jean's voice alerted him to her presence, "good rounds."

"Yes, thank you Jean," he smiled, "I see we have company."

"Mrs Stanton and her boys, and Li. They are having lunch in the kitchen, it's been a trying journey, by all accounts," she walked with him towards the kitchen.

As they entered Mrs Stanton and the boys made to stand up,

"No, please," Dr Blake motioned them to remain seated, "carry on, I shall squeeze here, next to Mary." He pulled out a chair and sat down, smiling at the little girl as she passed him a plate of meat. "Thank you, sweetie."

He looked round the table and nodded to the boys, "come on lads," he chivvied, "eat up, I know Mrs Beazley has been making cakes and biscuits for afterwards." He watched Jean, across the table, encouraging Li to drink some milk, but the baby was so tired she could barely keep her eyes open. Jean put the cup down and lifted her gently out of the chair.

"Come on, little one," she soothed, stroking her back, "let's get you changed and settled for a nap." Li mewled and hiccupped, into her shoulder, "shh," Jean kissed her, "it' alright, see over there," she turned her to look at Thomas, "that's grandpapa, you papa has asked him to look after you for a while, and me, and we love you and will keep you safe," she slowly danced round the table to the doctor and bent so he could stroke her hair.

"It's all a bit much for her," he murmured, "and she's too young to understand."

"Lucien talked about you a lot, to her," Mrs Stanton watched them, "how she would get to meet you, soon."

"I just wish Mei Lin would have come with her," he sighed, "for her safety."

"She was adamant that she would be safe in Singapore. Lucien is very worried, but he can't force her, Mei Lin is strong minded ... but that's for later, perhaps when the children have gone to bed?"

Both Jean and Thomas could see Mrs Stanton had quite a lot to tell that was not for the ears of young ones and only nodded.

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Jean crept down the stairs, Li's dirty clothes in her hands. There would be other things, in her suitcase, that would need washing, but for now, soak the nappy and put the rest in the laundry basket.

"She's asleep, for now," Jean whispered to the doctor.

"Good, she looked exhausted," Thomas looked up from his patient notes, "are you sure about this, Jean? It's not going to be easy."

"The best things never are, doctor," she smiled and left him to surgery.

Mrs Stanton took herself off for a nap, at Jean's insistence, the poor woman looked worn out, and Mary took the boys out into the garden to run around and play in the fresh air.

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Li woke after a couple of hours and set up a whimpering and wailing call for papa and nan. Jean went up to her, and hoped she could calm her enough not to cause the remaining patients to talk in the town, or offer suggestions as to how to settle her. Some had been told the doctor's granddaughter was coming to stay so that if Jean took her out in the pram there would be less gossip.

Jean changed her, soothed her and sang to her, just as she had with Mary, it seemed to settle her a little.

"Come on, Li," Jean settled her on her hip, "how about some milk, eh?"

The little girl sniffed and snuggled against her shoulder, she played with her collar, rubbing the soft fabric with her tiny fingers, as Jean took her downstairs.


	5. Chapter 5

**Singapore:**

Lucien took the telegram and sighed with relief as he read it.

"ALL ARRIVED SAFELY STOP MRS BEAZLEY STOP"

So, the housekeeper had decided to put his mind at rest, perhaps his father was at the hospital, the woman was going up in his estimation. She hadn't said how they were, but they were safe, that was all that mattered, he'd let Major Stanton know.

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Jean knew that Li was going to cling and it would take time for her to settle. She found the five minutes to ring the telegram through, with Li on her hip ticking that off her list of things to do. Thomas could write a longer letter later.

She sat in the living room encouraging Li to drink some warm milk and nibble a biscuit. She would have to get used to doing things with one hand, again, until Li was happy to crawl around in the kitchen, like Mary had done. She had no idea how far the nanny had got with toilet training, or whether she was trying to walk, she was nearly a year, she sighed and dropped a little kiss on top of the shining black hair, as straight as a ruler. It hadn't been cut at all and it was all lengths, the front needed tidying up, perhaps ribbons or clips for now. She was a fragile looking thing, smaller than Jean remembered Mary being at the same age. The milk and biscuit seemed to do the trick, certainly it all went down quite quickly.

"You enjoyed that, didn't you?" Jean wiped her fingers, "now, will you play on the floor while I see to dinner, I wonder?"

Jean looked in Mary's toy basket, in the corner and found a set of coloured rings and the post for them and decided that those on the floor would do for now, no need to overwhelm her. She sat her on the floor by the table while she prepared the vegetables, glad that a pork roast was on the menu for tonight. She could put everything in the large roasting tin and it could cook itself - as long a she remember to take the potatoes out before they mashed themselves. Li whimpered at first then, realising Jean wasn't going to leave her, started to chew the rings and turn them round in her hands. The shrieks from the garden didn't seem to bother her, though she did look round a couple of times, for the most part she seemed content.

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Ben stopped running and bent down, panting, his hands on his knees, "Mary," he called over, "d'ye think your mum would let us have a drink?"

"Ok," she grabbed his hands, "c'mon, let's go in."

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Jean turned as the kitchen door opened and the three children spilled in, she smiled and put down the knife and carrot she was peeling.

"Thirsty?"

"Yes, mama," Mary nodded, "please can we have a drink?"

"Wash your hands and you can have a biscuit as well, if you like," Jean stood up, "but mind you don't tread on Li," she nodded down to the floor.

Mary dragged a chair over to the sink so she could reach the taps and they took turns to wash and dry their hands, then Mary took them over to the table.

"You have to sit down, to have drinks and biscuits," she commanded, pointing to the other chairs.

Jean had her back to them, she smirked at her bossy daughter, but she wasn't used to having boys invade her home, and she was right, she was expected to sit down in case she spilled her drink, even in the living room. She set a plate of biscuits on the table and a jug of squash and three glasses. Arthur, who was the eldest, was allowed to pour the drinks while Jean lifted Li from the floor and offered her another biscuit.

"At least she isn't crying," Arthur grumbled.

"Don't be mean, Arthur," his mother's voice came from behind him, "she's too young to understand, and she misses the Captain."

"Sorry," he mumbled through a mouthful of shortbread.

"Yes, so you should be," Mrs Stanton huffed, "I must apologise ..."

"Don't worry, if Arthur has lost sleep because of Li's crying I'm not surprised if he's a bit grumpy." Jean stood and went to put the kettle on, "tea?"

"That would be lovely, but," she held out her arms for Li, "here, let me ..."

"I better get used to it, again," Jean smiled, "but thank you." She had felt Li tense when Mrs Stanton went towards her, "though, perhaps you could reach the cups and saucers, from that cupboard," she pointed to where she kept the crockery, "and the milk from the fridge."

The children finished their drinks and headed back out into the garden, Jean thought she could ask a few questions about Li's progress, what the nanny had been doing with her.

"So, Mrs Stanton," she put Li back with the rings on the floor, "do you know how far on nanny was with toilet training? and Li feeding herself?"

"Captain Blake has sent you this," she passed an envelope over, "I'm assuming it is all you need to know about her, and," she passed over a second packet, "this is from her grandfather, her legacy, he says, but she gets it early."

Jean could see from the size and shape of the second packet that it was money, and quite a lot of it too, she would ask the doctor to deal with that. She opened the letter from the child's father and raised her eyebrows at the familiar 'doctor's' hand. Still, she had learned to read Thomas'.

"Dear father and Mrs Beazley," it began,

"Firstly, thank you, a million times over, for taking Li in, I can rest easy, knowing she is safe. I expect you need to know where she is progress-wise; well I suppose she is on the right track, nanny spoils her, and I'm afraid I'm a bit guilty of that too.

Nanny has started toilet training her, but she is somewhat resistant, she is rather strong willed for such a little one, a bit too much like Mei Lin, I fear." This surprised Jean, that he should express some negative thoughts about his wife. It continued, "She eats well, with her fingers, prefers milk to drink or water, and loves any kind of fruit chopped up in a bowl. She is not a good sleeper, though I don't know why. We have tried ignoring her, giving her a drink of warm milk and I have paced the floor with her on numerous occasions. My sincere apologies for the disturbed nights you are letting yourselves in for, both of you. She is pulling herself up on the furniture and will toddle along the couch until her little legs give out and she sits down, usually quite cross with herself." Jean was warming to Captain Lucien Blake, he seemed to care deeply for his daughter, she could almost hear the laugh at this, and how many men would pace the floor in the middle of the night with a fractious baby? "I fear communication is going to become harder until whatever is happening is sorted out, China is in deep trouble with the advancement of Japanese troops. Please continue to write, and I will reply as often as I can.

My deepest gratitude to you, father, and to Mrs Beazley who I hope to meet one day, and thank, in person, for caring for my daughter.

Lucien."

Jean placed the letter back into the envelope and put it to one side, to show to Thomas when he had finished surgery. She sighed and stared into space. Mrs Stanton watched her, a curious woman, she thought, no mention of a husband but she wore a wedding ring so, a widow, perhaps? Young, for a housekeeper, but obviously very capable.

"Food for thought?" she remarked.

"Mm ..." Jean sipped her tea, "she's going to take time to settle, and I may not be quite so ... so soft as her father and nanny."

"Sometimes they need a little more firmness," Mrs Stanton muttered, "the Captain is so besotted with his daughter, and of course she is his first child."

"Quite, well," Jean put her cup down, "I need to finish sorting the dinner out, or it won't be ready until midnight," she laughed softly.

"Let me help," Mrs Stanton took the cups to the sink, "after all I'm holding you up."

"Thank you," Jean was grateful, at the moment she was running behind.

Between them they got the dinner prepared, Mrs Stanton told her more of the Captain, how he had been quite the catch. Women were drawn to him like moths to a flame, but he was always most polite, gentlemanly.

"So good looking and charming, Mrs Beazley," she smiled, "the young ladies were always flattered by his attentions, and I think because he spoke French and could flirt with them in that language, they were more inclined to flock to him."

Jean looked at her, wondering what she actually meant.

"Oh, I am sure beyond a doubt, he was no angel but I never saw him hurt any woman. Any dalliance he had was concluded with charm," Mrs Stanton assured her, "then he met Mei Lin Chen and that put a stop to his flirting."

"I see," Jean murmured. "Maybe, after dinner, you would like to speak to the doctor about Singapore. Of course all we know is what we read in the paper, but he will want to know about her. You only seem to refer to Li in connection to her father."

"Ah, yes, well ..."

"The doctor, not me," Jean stopped her, "I have never met Captain Blake."

"Of course."

For some reason Li decided that Jean was not going to leave her, or hurt her and, as long as she could see her, she seemed to be content. She started to crawl over to her and held her arms up, then, having assured herself that Jean was aware of her, would wriggle to be set down again. All good, as far as Jean was concerned. Mrs Stanton wondered what this power was Mrs Beazley had over the child who had done nothing but cry, and push away from her for nearly three days.

"Now, Miss," Jean lifted her up, "let's get you changed, before grandpapa comes through for dinner, eh?" She turned to Mrs Stanton, who was setting the table for her, "we shall all eat together, I think, six places and the high chair for Li."

"I apologise for the boys manners in advance, they usually eat separately from my husband and I."

"Oh, well, we all eat together, unless the doctor is busy, then it is just Mary and me," Jean stopped at the door, "I'm sure they'll be fine."

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As Jean changed Li, she wondered about Mrs Stanton. She seemed a pleasant enough woman, the boys were happy, well dressed and fed, and she had brought Li safely to her grandfather. She supposed she was just used to a completely different way of life.

"Come on, poppet," she picked the child up, "let's go and find grandpapa and have some dinner."

It occurred to Jean that she needed Li to call her something. 'Mrs Beazley' was out, she was far too young to even try that, 'Jean', was a bit familiar but easy for her to get her tongue round, perhaps if the doctor referred to her as 'Auntie Jean'?

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Dr Blake smiled at the sight of children at his table, the baby in the high chair set between himself and Jean, all that was missing was his son. and daughter in law. He stood to carve the pork, driving the knife through the crisp crackling that was Mary's particular favourite part of the dish, then sliced the meat and placed pieces on the plates as Jean passed them to him. They tucked in, particularly the children. Jean put pieces of vegetables, slivers of meat and a chopped up potato on a plate for Li. Mindful of what the Captain had said in his letter, about her eating well with her fingers, she thought this was the best way to encourage her to have some nourishment.

Mrs Stanton raised an eyebrow as Li picked up a piece of carrot and turned it round in her fingers before putting it to her lips and licking it. Jean watched out of the corner of her eye, not wanting her to see her watching. Li nibbled the vegetable and started on a green bean.

"It would seem," Thomas smiled, "Mrs Beazley, that your cooking is to her liking."

"Nice to know," she laughed back.

"It's delicious, Mrs Beazley," Ben Stanton shovelled a forkful into his mouth, "better than our cook's any day."

"Ben!" his mother was shocked, "she's a very good cook!"

Ben swallowed and blushed, but was still going to have his say, "not as good as Mrs Beazley, our cook uses a lot of funny things."

"Spices and herbs, dear," Mrs Stanton sniffed, "it's just the way they cook there, and it's lovely."

Jean smiled her thanks at the boy, she used spices and herbs, too, but not so it overtook the flavour of the ingredients.

Thomas offered his granddaughter a bean off his plate. She looked at him, directly, and took the vegetable, nibbling it delicately.

"You like that, don't you, darling," he said softly, "your father liked green beans, too."

"Oh, doctor, I'm sorry," Jean reached over to the table behind him where the kitchen phone sat, "the Captain sent these letters, I've read the one about Li but you should too, and this," she lifted the bigger packet, "is a legacy from her grandfather, her legacy, apparently."

"Ah, right, well," he put that to one side, "I shall put it safe for her, now, tell me, Mrs Beazley, what does my son tell us about my granddaughter?"

"That she likes milk or water to drink, eats well, but with her fingers, as we can see, fruit and vegetables, doesn't sleep well and the rest I shall discuss with you later."

"Well, that doesn't sound too bad, does it?" he smiled and reached over to put another spoonful of vegetables on her plate, "see how she does with that."

Li, now more confident about the food she was being offered quickly picked up pieces of carrot and green bean and put them in her mouth.

"Nice, sweetie?" Thomas smiled at her, and got a little smile back, "good girl."

The dessert of baked apples with custard went down very well. Jean spoon fed Li with teaspoons of the cooled pudding, and she seemed to like it very much.

"A sweet tooth, doctor," Jean smiled, "it would appear."

"Or just good taste," Dr Blake laughed, "are these apples off the tree in the garden?"

"Of course, they're just ready to eat."

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Thomas decided he would try and entertain the children while Jean and Mrs Stanton saw to the dishes. He had divested himself of his customary suit jacket and replaced it with a soft cardigan and took Li in his arms. She wriggled at first, but his hold was firm yet loving and she settled against him as he wandered into the living room.

"Now, Mary," he sat down in his usual chair, "where's that book of yours?"

She ran to the shelf where her books stood, and pulled out her favourite book of fairy tales.

"This one, doc-doc," she tried to find the place, "Princess Rosette, please," she passed him the book.

He smiled, it was her favourite and being as her home and peace and quiet have been invaded he was minded to indulge her, though the boys may not be that keen. He started to read, his voice soft and expressive and by the time the ladies had finished the dishes Mary was snuggled next to him and the boys were sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of him. Li was watching his face and listening to the soft tones, struggling to keep her eyes open when Jean came through. She lifted the sleepy child off him and cradled her in her arms.

"Time to go to bed, sweetheart," she whispered, "let's get you changed and tucked up."

Thomas stopped reading and stood up to kiss his granddaughter goodnight. She whimpered a little and Jean jiggled her gently as she walked her out of the living room and up the stairs. She sang to her, soft lullabies, as she changed her and put her into a little nightdress then lay her in the cot and passed her the soft toy Mary had said she could have. She had noticed, when she put her down for a nap that afternoon, that she seemed taken with it so tucking her up with it seemed like a good thing to do. Her clothes were still in her suitcase so Jean decided she could put them away and stay until she was fast asleep, hoping she would settle for the night, though from the Captain's letter, she doubted it. In the bottom of the case, under pretty dresses and cardigans, leggings and bonnets she found a soft toy, a monkey with a rather large and, to Jean, quite scary grimace. If that was what they gave Li at night, no wonder she didn't sleep well. She would leave that in the case for now and discuss it with the doctor. It was a connection to her parents and that should not be broken but ... she sighed, when she settled in perhaps leaving the wedding photograph in sight would be a better idea. She looked over at Li, now sleeping soundly and tiptoed out of the room, leaving the door slightly ajar to let a little light in, and headed downstairs where Thomas had started another story. Jean would be putting Mary to bed at the end, she knew it wasn't particularly long, and hoped that Mrs Stanton would chivvy her boys too, they had had a long day and were obviously tired; Ben was leaning on his brother and blinking in that way one does when overtired.

Mrs Stanton was sitting on the chair usually occupied by Dr Blake so Jean took the other one though there was room on the couch. She took up some sewing, mending one of Mary's dresses, where a button had come off. It was her habit to either do running repairs on clothes or knit in the evening and share a drink with the doctor, her a sherry and he a whisky, after Mary had been put to bed, and discuss the events of the day, the reports in the paper, until she excused herself and retired for the night. Just as she put the dress down Ben started to slip down his brother's side to the floor, asleep. Jean leant over and caught his head while his mother tutted and stood up, stepping towards him. She opened her mouth to call his name but Jean put her fingers to her lips. It would be a shame to waken him and he was small enough to carry. Jean lifted him up as it seemed his mother was not inclined to do so and carried him to the bedroom.

"I'll leave you to put him to bed," Jean whispered, and left the room, leaving a clearly uncomfortable mother to see to her child. Perhaps they had a nanny too, in Singapore, well, she was not in the business in taking over the care of other people's children when they were accompanied by a parent, but it might explain Li's reluctance to be held by her, earlier in the day.

Arthur appeared behind her, and smiled sleepily.

"Thank you, Mrs Beazley," he whispered so as not to wake his brother, "for dinner and for letting us stay."

"You are most welcome, Arthur," Jean patted his cheek, "sleep well."

"You too."

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Jean came down from putting Mary to bed to find the doctor had poured her sherry and was now sitting in his customary spot with his whisky. Mrs Stanton was on the couch with a sherry and appeared to be waiting for Jean so she could tell what she knew.

"Well," she started as Jean accepted her drink and sat down, "I don't know if I should say as much as I am going to but you should know about your son, doctor, and his wife."

Thomas nodded.

"Mei Lin has been spoiled, in her upbringing and Lucien is indulgent - anything she asks for, she gets. Neither she nor Li want for anything. I don't think Li would have been sent to you if it had been up to Mei Lin, she looked as if she didn't believe it when I took the stroller off him and started to push it up the gangplank. Personally I worry about her commitment to Lucien, I know her father was very pleased when Lucien started courting her and made sure the wedding was the event of the season. If her husband is unavailable she is usually seen in the company of Captain Alderton, the best man and a close friend of Lucien's. Lucien trusts Alderton to see she is safe but, sometimes I wonder ..."

Jean gasped, this was not something she should be hearing so she stood up to leave.

"Stay, Jean, please," Thomas commanded, "this may impact on Li's behaviour, and you will be more involved in her upbringing."

She sat down again nervously turning her glass in her fingers.

"I have no more to say, doctor," Mrs Stanton put her glass down, "save I think it is a marriage Mr Chen wanted, hoping to keep his daughter safe, but even he couldn't persuade her to come to you."

"I see," Thomas pursed his lips, "and how does Li fit into their lives?"

"Lucien worships her," Mrs Stanton smiled.

"He says in his letter that he has paced the floor with her, at night," Jean remembered the letter, "I don't know many fathers that would do that and, as she has a nanny, I would expect her to be doing that."

"Wonder why she doesn't sleep." Thomas mused.

"I found a toy monkey in her case," Jean sipped her drink, "it is rather odd looking, quite frightening, for a small child, I would have thought. Mary gave her one of hers, which she seemed to like this afternoon ..."

"Oh that thing," Mrs Stanton shook her head, "it is rather dreadful, isn't it. I put it out of the way on the first night but didn't have anything to replace it. I believe her mother bought it for her."

"I did wonder if it was the reason she didn't sleep," Jean suggested, "if she woke in the night and saw that facing her."

"It might be," Mrs Stanton agreed.

"We shall soon find out," the doctor sighed. "Where are you headed to, tomorrow?" he decided he didn't want to discuss his son and daughter in law anymore, not with a woman who quite obviously didn't like Mei Lin.

"Bendigo," she smiled, "my husband's family have kindly offered to let us stay. They own and run a hotel and have made over a suite for us."

Jean raised an eyebrow, "well," she stood up, "if you will excuse me, I shall head to bed, doctor, Mrs Stanton ..."

Thomas stood up, "goodnight, Jean, thank you for all you have done today."

"Goodnight, doctor," she nodded, noticing Mrs Stanton watch the interaction, which was nothing out of the ordinary.

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Jean lay in bed thinking on the conversation and all that Mrs Stanton had said about life in Singapore, or more precisely the Captain and his wife. If he had made a mistake in marrying Mei Lin that was his problem and she wasn't going to make it Li's or the doctor's. If she ever came to them they would be able to make up their own minds, though for now, Jean was rather glad she hadn't come this time. Thomas had been worried she would regard Jean as a servant and, if Mrs Stanton was to be believed, that may well be the case. She also worried about how Mrs Stanton saw her and the doctor's relationship which was based on courtesy and professionalism. He always stood when she left the room to go to bed, and when she entered it, it was old fashioned courtesy, he was polite and friendly and had never made any suggestion that they should take their relationship to another level. The town accepted it for what it was, she was his housekeeper, receptionist and secretary, and that was all there was to it, but it only took one suggestion and gossip spread like a bush fire. She chided herself for her unchristian thoughts, that she would be quite glad when Mrs Stanton left the next day, though she would miss the boys.

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Thomas had much the same thoughts as Jean, about his son and daughter in law, but they were overseas and there was nothing he could do about it, except write to say how sweet Li was, that they would do their best to keep her happy and healthy. Tell them that Mrs Beazley and she seemed to have taken to each other and introduce Mary into the story, because he hadn't mentioned her in his letters, not wanting to give Lucien ideas. Now was the time to give his a short version of Jean's story.

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Mrs Stanton lay in bed wondering if there was more to Dr Blake and Mrs Beazley's relationship than she had been told. She was young enough to be his daughter, but the girl, Mary, called him doc-doc, even though he seemed fatherly to her. If she were to stay in Ballarat she would surely find out the truth. She was a little put out that the housekeeper had stopped her waking Ben to take him to bed, and instead, had lifted him and carried him to bed. It was bad enough that nanny hadn't wanted to come with her, leave her family, but now she had been shown how to be a mother by a housekeeper she didn't know, and she would have to look after them herself, in Bendigo. Her parents in law were busy with the hotel, keeping it running after the downturn in economics hadn't been easy so she supposed she would have to keep the boys occupied and out of the way, ah well, there was always school. They had recommended one and had reserved places for the boys, where her husband had been educated as a young lad, apparently.

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It was just as well Jean was a light sleeper for she woke as Li started to whimper. She stumbled out of bed and quickly tiptoed to the girls' bedroom. Li's eyes were still closed but the soft toy had slipped from her hold. Jean tucked it back into the covers and stroked the child's head.

"Sh, little on," she whispered, "it's alright, sleep now."

Li wriggled a little and sighed then settled back to sleep. Jean waited a minute or two, then satisfied she was asleep, checked her own child, who it was widely regarded would sleep through thunderclaps; and indeed had done; and slipped back to her own bed. She was asleep in seconds.

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Jean was up, washed and dressed and sipping tea when Mary trotted down the stairs to tell her Li was awake.

"She's playing with the teddy, mama," Mary sat on her own chair and accepted a glass of orange juice.

"Oh, she likes it I think," Jean kissed her good morning, "now, I shall have to go and see to her and then I shall come down and do breakfast, if that's alright with you?"

"Can I help you?" she drank half the glass of juice, "then it won't take as long."

Jean laughed and stroked her curls, "alright, and you can get washed and dressed at the same time, can't you."

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The only thing that took time was getting Li to sit on the potty, that Mary had brought out from under the sink and placed just where it used to sit. Li was not happy and Jean found out she could say at least one word in English -"No!"

"But you're a big girl," Mary insisted, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of her, "and when you are a bit bigger you can use the loo, like me."

Li pouted but when she tried to get up, Mary pushed her, gently, down again, as Jean had done to her. In the end she did what she had to do and Mary clapped and cheered her. Jean had barely been able to hide her smile and almost laughed.

"Good girl, Li," she picked her up and washed her down, "now, Mary, get washed and clean your teeth, your toothbrush is ready, while I go and dress Li."

"Ok, mama," she stood on the little stool at the sink and started to wash her face. She had become slightly obstinate about doing things herself over the past few months but Jean was grateful, now, and thought she would be a help with Li, showing her how to be a 'big girl'.

In the bedroom, Jean put out Mary's clothes before starting to dress Li. Li watched her then watched her take out a vest and nappy for her, and a dress which Jean determined was the least expensive one for every day wear. All the clothes looked expensive, very pretty, but of the type that, if she had the money, she would only dress her daughter in for a special occasion. Some were silk, all seemed to have a frill somewhere and had matching knickers. She decided she would look and see if she had anything of Mary's that would fit, something in cotton, easy to wash and repair after a day in the garden. She had no idea why she would keep such things, it was unlikely she would have another child, being single; she was not going to make that mistake again; but she had and now it would seem they may come in useful. She brushed Li's hair and put a ribbon in it, to tidy it up.

Li watched Mary dress herself and Jean help her with the fastenings of her little cotton dress with pockets at the front. It was one she had made for her, she made most of Mary's dresses, could run one up in a couple of hours in the evening.

Both girls suitably washed and dressed, Jean carried Li down the stairs and they headed into the kitchen. Dr Blake was just making a fresh pot of tea and the Stanton boys were drinking orange juice.

"Good morning, doctor," Jean smiled, pulling the high chair over to the table, "did you sleep well?"

"Good morning, Mrs Beazley, and girls," he turned and nodded, "tolerably well, and you?"

"Li disturbed once, she had lost the teddy," Jean smiled, "other than that, yes, thank you."

"Well, what do you have that her father doesn't?" he mused.

"Better taste in soft toys, I think," Jean went to the fridge and took out the bacon, eggs and tomatoes, her voice could barely be heard.

"I shan't say a thing, when I write," he smiled.

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Breakfast over, Mrs Stanton apologised for oversleeping after wandering through just as Jean was putting her plate on the stove to keep warm, the boys were sent to wash and dress while their mother packed their things ready for the last part of the journey to Bendigo.

Jean, knowing how long the train journey would be wrapped up some sandwiches and biscuits for them, they could get a drink at the buffet car, and ordered the taxi. She was going to walk down into town with the girls and do some shopping, Li could sit in the stroller, Mary was used to the walk now. But first, washing. The things Li had worn on the journey, the nappies that had been soaked, all needed doing, and she determined that she didn't need to purchase anymore, after all.

Thomas thanked Mrs Stanton for bringing his granddaughter safely to him, shook the boys hands and told them they were a credit to their father.

Ben flung his arms round Jean and tearfully asked if he could stay. Jean hugged him and told him she had been delighted to meet him and his brother, and they would be welcome anytime, but he must go with his mother now and be a good boy.

"Ok," he sniffed, "but I wish I could stay."

They waved them off and Thomas closed the door, sighing deeply.

"Doctor?"

"The boys are lovely," he smiled, "but, when you took Ben to bed last night, Arthur told me they had a nanny and were, in his words, wheeled out at bedtime and when there were visitors. It sounded positively Victorian," he hummed, "I don't think Mrs Stanton is a mother in the full sense of the word."

"I didn't want to say anything," Jean started to go back to the kitchen where the nappies were boiling in the washing machine, "but I got that feeling too. I think she's in for a shock in Bendigo."

"Quite," he turned towards the study, "I'm going to write to Lucien, what shall I say about Li?"

"That she is eating well, and slept last night with a little wakeful moment. She is a little clingy, but that is to be expected and I have witnessed her forthright nature, in the form of not wanting to use the potty. You can tell him that Mary is telling her she must because she is a big girl." Jean laughed.

"Ah, yes, I will have to give a potted version of your history, Jean, all he knows is you are my housekeeper, I didn't want him to get the wrong idea." Thomas had to good grace to look a little sheepish.

"I did wonder, well, I'm sure you will tell him the things he should know," she shrugged her shoulders and headed back to her work.

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 **Singapore:**

Lucien raised his eyebrows as he read the much longer than usual letter from his father. So the housekeeper was a divorcee, with a small child. But Thomas did say she was the innocent party in the whole sorry story, that she had been left when six months pregnant, and her husband - whoops! - _ex_ -husband, was a good looking boy who had played on her youth and inexperience and had suggested that she would be intimate with him if she loved him. He mused on that then looked at the picture again. There was something in the eyes, a depth he didn't usually see in the women he had dated, and he had never used that line. Well, at least she knew about children and he understood why his father had not mentioned her marital state. He said she was strong, capable and well respected round the town, so, for now he would reserve any further judgement.

It had been a month since he sent Li away, he and Mei Lin were drifting apart too, much to his sorrow, he still loved her but her constant whining about not having things she apparently needed, and his being too busy to take her to all soirees that had her sulking and pushing him away irked him. That evening, before he left to see to some assignments at the hospital his friend, Captain Alderton had arrived and, as he was off duty had offered to escort Mei Lin to a party at a mutual acquaintance's home. She had visibly brightened at Derek's suggestion and tossed her head as they left. Alderton had far too much off duty time, in his opinion, and he knew brass had noticed. Lucien was up for promotion, to Major, how would Derek like that, come to think of it, would Mei Lin still want to be escorted by a lowly Captain when her husband was a Major?

While Lucien was peeved at Alderton's lack of time seeing to his men, he had the military hospital to attend to. He enjoyed his work, it wasn't just battle wounds and accidents on the training fields he dealt with, it was the day to day care of the civilians on base and the local residents of Singapore. They came to him because of his knowledge of their language and local ancient medicine, and because he was gentle and kind and took an interest in them.

He wondered how Li was doing now, a month on, this letter was written two days after she met her grandpapa. He wondered if Mrs Beazley had won the 'battle of the potty', and was amused to read that Mary was helping with that.

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"Mama! Look!" Mary called down the hall, "Look at Li!"

It had been just over a month since the little girl had come to stay with them. She was more inclined to accept potty training if Mary was there and the promise of under-things like her friend if she was out of nappies seemed to give her the impetus to be a 'big girl'. She gabbled in her mother's native tongue, Jean supposed it was, and in English. Thomas declared she was progressing as well as she should given the upheaval in her life and now Mary seemed to have something special to show.

Jean poked her head round the door and smiled. She crouched down and held her arms out to the little girl, toddling unsteadily over the wooden flooring. It was a long walk for her and she dropped to her knees twice, before finally arriving at Jean's open arms. Jean stood up and swung her round as she giggled.

"You clever girl," Jean hugged and kissed her, "Isn't she Mary? And aren't you clever helping her, I'm so proud of you." She bent and kissed Mary's head, "now, juice and a biscuit I think."

"Will doc-doc be happy, mama?" Mary asked as she sat on her chair and Li was placed beside her, "that Li can walk now, like a big girl?"

"He will, darling, very pleased, like he was when you walked for the first time."

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And so life went on in Ballarat. Mary had turned four and Jean had decided she had better enrol her in school. She thought about the bigger schools, then not. Perhaps a small primary, Mary was not used to crowds of children, and not Catholic, being the daughter of a divorcee, it was probably best if she went to a non faith school, for now. She arranged to look round one or two, and took both girls with her. Dr Blake had asked her to see if they would be open to taking Li, when she was ready, assuming her father had not collected her by then.

"Though given the situation in Europe I doubt that will be soon," he sighed, one evening.

"But he's in Singapore," Jean didn't quite understand why Europe should prevent Lucien from coming to collect his daughter.

"And the Japanese are all over the place, in the East," he grunted, "it's not good, Jean. It's like a domino effect, once one starts a fight the rest join in."

She thought about that and huffed in annoyance, "just like naughty children," she shrugged.

"Exactly, Jean," he smiled, "perhaps you mothers should run the world."

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Li had turned into quite the chatterbox, from 'no', she had gone to identifying foods, able to call for 'gan'pa', but to Jean's embarrassment she insisted on calling her 'mama', just like Mary did.

"Don't worry, Jean," Dr Blake smiled one evening when she expressed her feelings, "it was bound to happen, and 'Auntie Jean' is quite a mouthful."

"But what about when her mother claims her?" she worried, "surely she will be angry, feel I have taken Li from her."

"We shall deal with that when the time comes," Thomas soothed, "she only ever asks for 'papa', and seems content with 'soon' as an answer. She's too young to have a concept of time, and, my dear housekeeper," he teased, "you have been very much a mother to her."

"She's easy to love, doctor," she smiled, "all she needed was some ground rules."

"Jean," Thomas had been thinking a great deal since Li had come to stay, his worries about the world and his son had led him to a decision, "I am going to have my will written ... oh no, don't worry," on hearing a gasp, "I'm not ill, it's just I need to make sure she is taken care of, so, in the event of my death and the none appearance of my son I am going to ask that you become Li's guardian and leave the house to you."

"Doctor!"

"Hear me out," he held up his hand, "if Lucien comes back and claims her, and decides not to stay, you have the house. If he comes back and stays I will leave you enough to buy a small house of your own, if he doesn't need a housekeeper. When you came to me I made certain promises, in my mind, and one of those was that you and your child would never end up on the streets."

"Oh," was all she could think of to say.

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I'm sorry that this is a rather domestic chapter, where nothing much happens but the story has far to go yet. Thank you for reading so far and reviewing.


	6. Chapter 6

Another time jump, we are now at 1939.

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"Well, that's it then," Thomas huffed over his evening whisky, "it was inevitable, I suppose." He leaned over and turned off the radiogram, "war in Europe, troubles in the East ..." he looked into the distance, the ghosts of his past in the first world war pushing back into his mind.

Jean didn't know how to reply to this, the doctor was going to worry about his son even more, and she couldn't blame him. He shared all the letters with her and she felt he was a distant relative she had never met.

"He'll be alright," she suddenly voiced her thoughts, "he'll come home, one day."

"How can you be certain, Jean?" he looked up at her, "good men die in wars, the innocent are slaughtered. Look at what Hitler has been doing, in Europe to the Jews - they have never done anything to him."

"He's your son, doctor," she whispered, "he's a survivor."

Her faith in his son amazed him. She only knew him from the letters and what he had told her. But she was right, in many ways, he was a survivor. He thought of Genevieve, his late wife, Lucien's mother - what would she think? He had closed off from Lucien when she died, sent him away to school - then the boy had distanced himself from his seemingly cold and unfeeling father only to tentatively hold out the olive branch when he was deployed to Singapore with the army. She would be proud of him, he _hoped_ she would be proud of him. He looked towards the studio, still locked after all these years, Jean had suggested her open it up again when he had talked about her work, the paintings she had never seen. They didn't really need the space, but ... he sighed.

"Doctor?" Jean sipped her sherry, "are you alright?"

I was just wondering," he hummed, "the studio, maybe I should open it up. It has a lovely fireplace for the winter evenings, and Genevieve used to let tiny pieces of gold leaf float up to the ceiling, on the warm up-draught."

"It sounds lovely," she smiled gently, "but if it upsets you ..."

"Before you came, it probably would, but I would like to share her work with you," he straightened his shoulders, "tomorrow," he said firmly, "tomorrow we will unlock the doors and see how the years have treated it."

She was glad. It would take his mind off the war, perhaps, and she would like to see Mrs Blake's work. He had told her about it, how she used gold leaf on the paintings, how she wasn't appreciated because she was a woman, and female artists were universally ignored.

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The morning was cool but fresh. Jean and Li walked Mary to school. Jean was so glad she had settled well, even though questions about her absent father had started to come out. How her friends had daddies, why didn't she? She had asked Thomas how on earth she could explain to a five -nearly six - year old, that her parents had had to get married and he had walked out on her before Mary was born.

"A difficult one, Jean," he agreed, "perhaps you should just tell her that he wasn't ready to be a daddy and decided to go and see what the rest of the world had to offer."

"And if she asks if he'll come back?" she bit her lip, she didn't want to tell her daughter that her father didn't actually want her, or love her mother enough to stay through the hard times.

"Be honest, Jean, lying or fudging the truth will only get you caught out in the end, and she will hate you for that."

So they had sat down, after Li had been put to bed one evening, and told Mary that Jean loved her with all her heart, but her daddy was just not ready to be a father. He had left to go and see other places and mummy (the 'mama' of her baby and toddlerhood had gone) had come to Dr Blake because he wanted her to keep his house and look after his surgery.

Mary had looked from one to the other and finally climbed onto her mother's knee.

"I love you, mummy, and I'm glad you came to doc-doc's - he's better than anybody else's daddy," the little girl snuggled into her shoulder and reached out to hold Thomas' hand.

Thomas had always liked that she called him 'doc-doc', Li called him 'gran'papa' and there were times he wondered that, as Li insisted on calling Jean 'mama', one day she may slip up and call him 'gran'papa' or gran'pa'. Of course he would never correct her, just as Jean had given up trying to get Li to call her 'Auntie Jean'. Nobody who heard commented on it, but he was sure the Clasby ladies saw to any of that kind of nonsensical gossip, anyway.

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With a small amount of shopping stowed under the stroller seat, Jean headed home to begin opening up the studio with Thomas. She hoped he didn't feel pushed into it, though part of her thought he was trying to find his family again, Lucien and Genevieve. He had grieved for twenty years for his wife, she hoped he wouldn't be grieving for his son when the fighting eventually stopped.

She unclipped the straps holding Li in the stroller and lifted the shopping before pushing the door open and calling through that she had returned.

"Gran'papa!" Li called as she trotted down to the kitchen, "we got oddiges!"

Jean laughed at her pronunciation of 'oranges' and Thomas came out of the studio with his arms open for her.

"You and your oranges," he lifted her high above his head, "how many do you eat?"

"Not too many, doctor," Jean put her basket on the table, "or she would have a poorly tummy." She passed the fruit to the child as he set her down on the floor to put into the bowl on the table, and put the meat in the fridge.

"Good, good," he smiled, "now Jean I have unlocked the studio door, it's very dusty in there."

She knew he had had to do that one thing while she was out, so she would not see the tears he would shed, give himself time to take stock of the sights and smells and the memories.

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With her apron over her dress and Li in something she didn't have to worry about Jean followed him into the studio. She gasped at the sheer size of the room. Almost half the width of the entire house with tall windows looking out onto the garden. There were canvases around the walls, some finished some not quite so, portraits, mainly, paints and brushes lying on a table, or standing in pots of long evaporated turpentine, half used tubes of oil paints and a couple of palettes with dried colours covered with a layer of dust. She looked up, remembering what he had said about the gold leaf - the ceiling was high and glittered with flecks of gold, like stars in the night sky - it was beautiful. There was a leather Chesterfield couch in front of the large fireplace in front of which lay a, possibly red patterned, rug.

"Doctor," she whispered, "it's wonderful."

"Do you think so?" he scratched his head, "I thought it was a bit gloomy, myself."

"No, no it isn't," she stepped further in, "it's lovely ... well, it will be," she rolled up her sleeves, "once I've cleaned and dusted, beaten the rug, tidied the paints away ..."

"Those may as well be thrown out, Jean," he sighed, "they are no good now, she replaced the brushes often, anyway."

"Right, well, Dr Blake," she knew she had to keep going or he would start to become depressed as his memories flooded back. "I need your help, with the art things, then, perhaps Li can take you into the garden while I dust and clean."

Thomas found it hard to take things out to the garbage, sort the canvases out, the unfinished ones to the outbuilding, the finished ones to be set aside and perhaps displayed around the house, but with Jean's and Li's constant cheery manner and exclamations of wonder at the paintings, he managed it.

"Hello," hummed Jean, lifting one up that had fallen sideways behind a pile of half painted landscapes, "I know this face." She held up the portrait and grinned, "Miss Agnes Clasby, I believe."

"Heavens, I remember her painting that one," he took it and held it at arm's length, "we had had a row about her losing a painting I was selling to Michael Tyneman. Fortunately no money had changed hands, but I never did find out what happened to the painting."

"Patrick Tyneman's father?"

"The one and only," he grinned. "I often wondered if Agnes knew anything about it, it was a Davies, worth a bit now. Ah, well," he shrugged his shoulders, "water under the bridge."

They continued tidying, throwing things away, sorting until Li decided she had had enough of the dusty room that made her sneeze and pulled gran'papa out into the garden.

"Sorry, Jean," he waved over his shoulder.

Jean just waved and returned to wiping the dust off the mantel piece.

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She had almost finished, just the rug to beat; and she had taken that out into the garden; when Thomas and Li reappeared, he carrying a welcome cup of tea for her. He looked round and smiled.

"Jean, it looks marvellous," he noticed she had polished the fire irons, sills and table, possibly the leather Chesterfield and moved the table to behind the couch. The wooden floor was clean and dust free. She had put some of the paintings round the room, just enough to make it feel like a proper living space and not too much that it looked like an art gallery.

She took a deep drink of the tea and brushed her hair out of her eyes, she felt dusty and grubby, but rather as if she had achieved a great feat.

"Thank you, Jean," he smiled, "thank you for helping to banish some of the demons."

"I think we should see if the gallery would like to show one or two of her works," she looked at him over the rim of her teacup, "though we may be disappointed."

"The curator is a philistine, more than ever I am," he huffed, "he would probably dismiss her work as that of an amateur, and a female? really Jean, I don't think times have changed that much," but he laughed at the idea that she would probably embarrass the little, weasel of a man into showing at least one - he hoped it would be the one of Agnes.

Jean laughed at the idea he was a philistine.

"I didn't really appreciate art, still don't, though I do know what I like," he perched on the arm of the couch, "I loved Genevieve for who she was not what she painted, she could be infuriating at times, the life and soul of the party and there isn't a day goes by that I don't miss her."

Jean touched his shoulder, "and she must have loved you, to leave you with all this and the love you still have for her."

"I'm sorry, Jean, that was selfish of me, after all you have been through," he patted her hand, "now, the rug needs beating, yes?"

"It does, and I will get on with that after we have had lunch, or Li will be eating the kitchen table." She turned and headed out to prepare some sandwiches.

As she cut the bread and sliced the ham she thought on Thomas' worry that he was selfish for remembering his marriage and the love he had for his wife. She didn't miss Christopher, she missed the life they might have had if they had married for love and not because of Mary. She wasn't even sure she loved him, six - seven years on, not as she should have loved him. Oh, it all got so confusing, she was happy as she was, a good position, respected in the community with a few good friends. Yes, all things considered, life was not bad at all.

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Mary peered into the studio after school, Li had chattered on about gran'papa's new room with pictures as she sat in the stroller.

"See," Li pulled her over to the picture of Agnes Clasby, "mama knows her."

"I know her too, Li," Mary tipped her head to one side, "it's Miss Agnes."

Li giggled, she liked both Miss Agnes and Miss Nell, they gave both girls sweets when they thought mama wasn't looking.

"Come on you two," Jean chivvied them out of the room, "milk and a biscuit, then you can play or help me with dinner." She closed the door behind them, regarding it as a special space for Thomas, not a room for general use or for children to run around in, but she would put the Christmas tree up in there, this year. Maybe they should have two, on for the living room as well, even if there was a war on.

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Thomas would now sit in the studio in the evenings, and encouraged Jean to join him. They would talk over the day's surgery, how certain patients were doing, and about Lucien. Opening the studio had opened his heart, and he told her tales of how his son would run around the house, interrupt consultations and ask a constant stream of questions at inappropriate times.

Jean laughed at the stories and reminded him that both Li and Mary did similar things, though not during surgery ... well not often.

"I think I've mellowed with age," he laughed and raised his whisky glass.

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Ruth knocked urgently on the door. She had to catch Jean, before she went to do any shopping. Thank god it was Saturday and she wouldn't be taking Mary to school. She stood waiting, running the handle of her handbag through her fingers, wondering what she was going to say to her.

"Jean," she stepped inside as soon as the door opened, "thank god I caught you."

"Ruth, what's wrong?" Jean guided her to the kitchen where the children were just finishing their breakfast.

"Hello, Auntie Ruth," Mary grinned, "are you coming shopping with us today?"

"Er, hello, Mary," she stammered, "no, I need a quick word with mummy, if that's ok."

She pulled Jean into the living room.

"Ruth, what's going on?" Jean hissed, "why are you here so early."

"Christopher's back," she blurted out, "and looking for you."

"What? Why?" Jean ran her hand through her hair, disturbing the carefully styled curls.

"I don't know," Ruth sat down on the couch, "nobody will tell him where you are, Bill Hobart rang me this morning, got me out of bed; I'm here to see mum; and told me that he'd been in the pub last night, trying to find out where you are. Said he'd been up to the farm and it was in the hands of another family, well you know that, so he thinks you have done something with the money from the sale of the place."

"Mummy?" Mary stood and looked at her shocked face.

Jean couldn't speak, couldn't tell her daughter that her father had returned.

"Doc-doc!" she ran through to the surgery where Thomas was looking through his list for the day, "doc-doc," she pulled up short at the door, "mummy looks scared."

Thomas looked at her, Mary wasn't given to silly stories, so he put his notes down and followed her to the living room. She was right, Jean looked horrified.

"Go play in the garden with Li, Mary," he guided her back to the kitchen, "I'll look after mummy, with Auntie Ruth."

"Doc-doc?" she whispered, fear in her eyes.

"It'll be fine, sweetheart," he smiled and rubbed her back, "mummy's probably just had a shock."

With a last look at her mother, Mary did as she was asked, slowly.

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They watched the children go into the garden and Dr Blake made sure they had gone right out and were not lurking in the sunroom.

"Now, Ruth," he turned to Jean's closest friend, "what's happened.?"

Ruth told him how Christopher had come back and wanted to know where Jean was and why the farm had been sold. That he believed Jean had made off with the profits of the sale, that he was angry but nobody had said where she was or who she was living with, or that they were no longer married. Bill Hobart had warned him that if he didn't get out of the pub and sober up he would take him in to spend the night in the cells. Christopher had been less than complimentary about his relationship with Jean and had brought Matthew into it, although he was still in Melbourne.

"Bill told me he was going to ring Matthew," Ruth finished, "but it's two hours away and he might be on duty."

"Did he end up in the cells?" Jean gulped.

"Yes," Ruth nodded, "but it wasn't Bill that took him in, it was someone over from Bendigo, Ashby, I think."

"You stay here today, Jean," Thomas steered her to sit down, "and I want Bill here too."

"He's ..." the phone rang and cut her off. Thomas went to answer it, while Ruth continued, "... on his way. He's off duty today so he said he'd come up and ... that'll be him now," she smiled as a sharp rap was heard on the front door and got up, "I'll get it."

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It was indeed Constable Bill Hobart with a grin on his face.

"Mornin' Ruth," he stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him, "Matthew's coming over, too. Ashby is keeping Christopher in the cells until he has woken up, boss says it's not a hotel but I told him it was to keep a local safe and that's our job."

"That was Matthew," Thomas returned from answering the phone, "he's just going to catch the express and come over." He turned to Bill, "Morning Bill, now does he know where his parents are?"

"Don't think anybody told him, but I called them after I phoned Ruth," Bill moved to stand beside Jean, "they are shocked, understandably, and on the other hand are glad he is alive, but..." he looked at Jean, "he was drinking a lot last night.. He looked haggard, if I may say, thinner than I remember. That aside, I got the impression you, Jean, are not his favourite person."

"He left me, Bill," she sniffed, "he blackmailed me into being intimate with him, before we were married, even though I knew it was wrong. He suggested that Mary was either yours or Matthew's, when I told him I was pregnant. He doesn't love me, and he never did."

Ruth put her arm round her and guided her back to the couch.

"We'll sort it, Jean," she murmured, "Bill and Matthew won't let him hurt you ..."

"Nor will I," Thomas looked down at her. "Now, what do we do?"

"I think I should see him," Jean sighed, "tell him we are divorced, and send him on his way."

Bill scratched his head at the thought Christopher accused Jean or sleeping around. Of all the people less likely to sleep round, Jean was top of his list, for even suggesting that, he would like to give the drongo a thorough beating.

"What about Mary" he asked, "does she know about him?"

"Only that he wasn't ready to be a father and went to see what there was outside of Ballarat," Jean recalled the conversation they had had with her, on why she didn't have a daddy. "She knows she is loved and seems quite happy with that and living here, in fact she said she was glad I had come here and that Dr Blake was better than any daddy."

Thomas blushed, Bill grinned, "hear hear," Ruth smiled.

"I don't think she should see him until we know what his intentions are," Thomas folded his arms, "but if he was drinking heavily then it doesn't sound as if his intentions are honourable."

"So, we wait?" Ruth asked.

"I have chores to do," Jean stood up again and squared her shoulders, "but there is shopping that needs getting."

"Order it over the phone, Jean," Thomas reminded her she didn't need to go into town if she had other things to do. "I have surgery this morning, so it is reasonable for you to stay here."

"Have you something that needs doing in particular, that you have been waiting for time to do?" Ruth thought, "maybe we can help, give Bill and Matthew a reason to be here, for the girls."

"Well," Jean tipped her head, "the grass needs cutting, and there is some weeding to do, Mary and Li like to help with that. The girls' bedroom needs a spring clean, Ruth, and then there are the patients to see to."

"And you thought you had time to go into town," she grinned, "right, well, Bill are you gardening?"

"Will do," he saluted, "mower in the shed?"

"And the rest of the tools," Jean nodded.

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Mary and Li didn't mind in the least staying in the garden with Uncle Bill, once Mary had made sure her mother was alright.

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Christopher blinked in the harsh light of the naked bulb in his cell. His head throbbed and his throat was dry, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. God he hated Ballarat. What the bloody hell gave him the idea to come back? There was nothing here for him, his family farm had been sold, the girl he had bedded, impregnated, wed and left had sold up and taken all that rooted him here. He hated everything about the place.

"Beazley!" a sharp, solid bass voice called, "you have a visitor."

"Wha ..?"

"Your father has come to see you," Doug Ashby, Senior Sergeant from Bendigo, unlocked the door and stepped to the side to let Christopher's father see his long lost son.

It wasn't a sight he enjoyed, a grubby, unshaven and scrawny young man, one tooth broken at the front, probably from a fight and unkempt hair that needed washing and cutting. He was so glad he had not allowed his wife to see him, it would have broken her heart.

"Son," he nodded and sat, gingerly on the edge of the bed, "you've come back?"

Christopher grunted.

"Where have you been?" his voice was gentle, he reserved judgement until he had heard his story. "We have been worried about you, seven years is a long time."

"Huh," he sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "Like you care."

"Yes, son, we do," Mr Beazley tried to catch his eye, "you left so suddenly, never wrote or phoned ... abandoned your pregnant wife ..."

Christopher turned his back. His father put his hand on his shoulder and tried to turn him back but he shrugged him off.

"Christopher ..."

"What happened at the farm?"

"We sold up, I couldn't keep it going on my own, Jean couldn't work in the fields, not pregnant ... we, your mum and I, have a nice little place out of town, I grow and sell flowers to the markets and the local florists, it's not much but it's enough, for us."

"Her?" he grunted, meaning Jean, who he couldn't bring himself to name. He still blamed her for dragging him into a marriage he didn't want. "Set her up, did you, with her own little place ..."

"You can stop that right now," Mr Beazley ground his teeth, "Jean is happy, has a good standing in this town. She doesn't blame you, she knows she should have been stronger and not let you do what you did, but she did, because you blackmailed her, emotionally. Her child, your child, is happy and healthy, settled in school and none the worse for not having a father." He was careful not to tell him that he had a daughter, or that Jean worked for Dr Thomas Blake and lived in his house, in his current state he would assume the worst.

"I don't want them," Christopher hissed.

"You haven't got them," his father sighed, "she divorced you and had the marriage annulled, she doesn't want you back, you never loved her, though she did love you, and has never wished you ill."

"How could she do that?" he turned, "I never heard anything."

"You couldn't be found," Mr Beazley stood up and glared down at him, "she could have waited seven years or so and had you declared dead, but, she decided she couldn't live with that hanging over her. The church agreed you had no intention of entering into a lifelong commitment, they call it Defect of Contract." He reached into his jacket pocket, "here, your copies of the papers, you can use these to prove you are free to marry, should you ever decide to do so again. Jean gave them to us, in case you got in touch."

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The phone rang mid surgery. Jean ran down the stairs to pick it up. It was the station Inspector.

"Just wanted to let you know Christopher's father has visited him and passed the papers to him. We've had to release him," he coughed, "don't know if he's going to try and find you, but nobody has told him where you are."

"Thank you, Inspector," she sighed, "will you let me know when he leaves town, though whether he does or not is immaterial, I shall still go about my daily routine, including taking Mary to school."

"He didn't seem bothered about seeing you, but we shall make sure someone is on the route until he does leave."

"Well, alright, then," she tipped her head and thought, "perhaps Bill Hobart, the sight of him might stop him doing anything silly, without it descending into a fist fight."

"Ah, right," he hummed, "I'll put him on patrol there, in the morning and afternoon."

Jean was surprised he would alter the roles of an officer just for a divorced housekeeper with a child. Still, she would say nothing and just be glad he could see it would keep things quiet in Ballarat.

As she put the phone down and thought about making tea for Ruth and Bill, as well as a mid surgery cuppa for the doctor there was a knock at the door. She was pleased to see Matthew, and greeted him with a smile and a squeeze to his hand. He had arrived just as the grocer's and butcher's boys had arrived.

"Good timing, Constable Lawson," she grinned, "I was just about to make tea." She took the meat and Matthew carried the grocery into the house.

"Lovely," he grinned back, "Bill here?"

"Aha, and Ruth," she preceded him down to the kitchen, "the doctor's taking surgery, Bill's in the garden."

"Christopher?"

"They've just released him from the cells," Jean put milk in a jug and set it on the table, "cups, Matthew, please, that cupboard," she pointed, and started to set a tray for Thomas.

He waited for her to fill in the gaps of the story as she put the shopping away.

"His father has visited and handed him the papers, so he knows we're divorced, but nobody has said where I am, or that he has a daughter."

"So, with a bit of luck we should have a quiet day," he laughed.

Jean laughed and took the tray through to Thomas.

"Good to hear you laugh, Jean," he smiled, "has Matthew arrived?"

"Yes, just," she set his tea down, "I think I'll ask him to paint the front door, we've been meaning to do it."

"Alright, the paint is in the outbuilding," he agreed.

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The girls had thoroughly enjoyed helping Bill in the garden and were filthy when he brought them in for lunch. Jean just shook her head and took them upstairs to wash and change.

"Did you two have fun, with Uncle Bill?" she asked as she slipped a fresh dress onto Li.

"Yes, he let us dig with him, and he moved the pretty plant with the white flowers over to the fence," Mary dried her face and hands, "he said it will grow over and along it."

"The jasmine?" her mother passed her a clean dress, "I was going to move that, it would seem he has saved me a job."

"He said he was surprised you planted it in the middle," Mary turned round so the buttons could be fastened.

"I didn't," Jean patted her head to let her know she was finished, "it was there when I came here, but it wasn't looking as if it was going to do anything, which is why I didn't do anything with it. I suppose I shall have to put something in its place."

"Better leave the door slightly open, Jean," Matthew appeared in the kitchen, "don't want it to stick closed." He went to wash his hands in the sink, "I've put the paint back in the outbuilding, but it needs a sort out. What are all those half done paintings?"

"They're Mrs Blake's," Jean set a plate piled high with cold meat and a bowl of salad on the table, "the doctor has opened up the studio and we've cleaned it out. Those paintings aren't finished, as you saw, but there are some that we have kept."

"There's one of Miss Agnes," Mary piped up, as she took the plates to the table.

"I thought maybe the gallery could be persuaded to show one or two," Jean smiled as Thomas came through, surgery done for the weekend, "the doctor thinks that because she was a female artist it's unlikely."

"Some of the major galleries in Melbourne are putting their major works into storage, well away from any looting, because of the war," Matthew turned from the sink, drying his hands, "though I don't think we'll have the same trouble here as they have had in Europe. You know Hitler has been removing art from museums and galleries, looting it from Jewish homes, and destroying work by Jewish artists, or modern stuff he finds offends his sensibilities. Perhaps, if the Ballarat gallery are going to do this, because the curator is a nervous wreck, you could persuade them to hang her stuff to fill up the walls. I'm sure it's great," he added hastily, "just thought it would be a way to introduce her work to the wider public." He gulped. Matthew wasn't given to long speeches and usually kept thoughts on aesthetics to himself.

"Well, that's one way of handling it, I suppose," Jean smiled and put a large jug of water on the table. "Now, sit and eat, you've all earned it."

As they ate Matthew told them stories of his time at St Kilda, and joining forces with the City South police to solve a couple of murders.

"The Chief Superintendant there, Robinson, has a heck of a reputation," he paused between mouthfuls of ham and tomato, "his wife is some British aristo, gorgeous and a brain as sharp as a scalpel. She turns up at his crime scenes - should be part of the force - helps solve cases. They held a party for those of us that helped clean up a dock side murder and illegal import gang, well, actually, they were white slavers, horrible, poor girls, anyway, she spoke to all of us, and on a level too. Word has it she was born in Collingwood, but you'd never know it."

He was clearly in awe of Mrs Robinson and Jean knew how shy he could be around larger than life characters; she imagined he would have blushed scarlet and mumbled something quite incoherent. Dear Matthew, even when they were younger he had reddened when he spoke to her, no way would he even have thought of trying to sleep with her outside the bounds of marriage. Perhaps this time away from his home was good for him, would help him grow into the fine officer she knew was inside him.

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As they washed the dishes and thought about perhaps taking the girls to the Botanic Gardens, all of them together, there was a knock on the door.

Jean dried her hands on her apron and headed up to answer it. Matthew stood at the kitchen door to see who it was and gasped. He turned to those still in the kitchen, "Ruth, take the girls into the studio," he hissed and went to Jean, followed by the doctor and Bill.

"Christopher," Jean spoke pleasantly, as she would to any caller, "what can I do for you?"

"You're a hard girl to track down," he grunted, "you divorced me?"

"I did, you never wrote or phoned, what was I supposed to think," she stood upright, she would not be bullied by him, not now, "you left before I had the baby, deserted us, left your father to work the farm by himself. You had no intention of sticking to your vows. We are both free to live our lives as we want, now."

Christopher looked beyond her to the three men flanking her, protecting her. He had spent the time since being released grabbing every low life in Ballarat until he found someone who would give up her whereabouts rather than be thumped. She was right in her summation of him, but still, at twenty six, she was the prettiest girl he had ever bedded. He had expected to find her downtrodden, scraping a living somewhere, but here she was, better off than he was, well fed and clothed. He wasn't sorry he had left her, but now he wondered what the doctor and she had, together. He was old enough to be her father ...

"Is there something we can do for you?" she broke through his thoughts.

Quite clearly he had not thought what he would say to her, or what he wanted from her, now. He shrugged, "s'ppose not."

"What are you going to do?"

"Been conscripted," he huffed, "might as well, nothing for me here."

Much as she hated the thought of him going off to war, hated that any young man would do that, she had nothing to offer him, except one last 'kindness'.

"Do you want to see our child?"

"Won't do any good," he turned away, "bye."

"Goodbye, Christopher."

She closed the door before he was halfway down the drive.

Turning to the three men who had stood waiting to offer any help she took in a deep breath and straightened her shoulders, tears would be shed in private, later, for now ...

"You lot finished the dishes?" she asked with a little smile, "if so let's take the girls to feed the ducks, instead of the gardens."

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The fresh air, the laughter of the children as they threw bread to the ducks on Lake Wendouree banished any sadness she had at what she felt was the real end to her marriage. She hoped Christopher would be safe, would come through the war unscathed, and perhaps a better man. Bill had been right when he said he looked haggard, she supposed he had not worked properly since he left her, not ate, though he appeared to have enough money for drink. In a way she was glad he didn't see Mary, make himself known to her. One day she would tell her the whole truth, when she was old enough to understand, perhaps as she embarked on courting, or even when she became interested in boys. Just to warn her not to make the same mistake, happy though that had turned out to be, as she did. For now they would continue in the doctor's house, live their lives and love those around them.


	7. Chapter 7

I am not going to dwell on the war so there are significant time jumps in this chapter.

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"I have to admit, father," Lucien wrote, "it does not look good. Japan has invaded so much of China, and are looking to the Dutch East Indies. I can't begin to tell you how glad I am that Li is with you for I feel she will be safer there. I know Australia has sent troops to fight and many you know, and some I remember will be joining that fight. Mei Lin now knows there is no chance I can get her out to you. I hope we can come through this safely but I have arranged with my solicitor that you become Li's legal guardian and should anything happen to you Mrs Beazley will take on that role. I hope she doesn't mind, but from your letters she is more of a mother to her than her own ever was. I'm sorry to say that to you, but I want there to be honesty between us, I love Li, with all my heart and miss her daily. I will write when I can so do not worry about the lack of letters.

Give Li my love, tell Mrs Beazley I am more than grateful to her, and my deepest respect and love to you, father,

Your son (and proud to be so)

Lucien."

Thomas wiped his eyes and reread the letter before taking a deep breath and wandering through to Jean, in the kitchen.

She knew he had spoken of her in his letters to Lucien, but not that he had sent so much information that the younger Dr Blake would deem her a suitable guardian for his daughter should it become necessary. She was embarrassed and proud in equal measure.

"Do you mind, Jean?" Thomas took a sip of tea that she seemed to be able to magic up in an instant, "that he should ask this of you, even though I have already done this?"

"I don't mind," she mused, "but I am surprised he would ask a stranger to do this. I love Li, you know I do, and regard her as my second daughter, it's hard not to. I suppose it reassures me that he loves her enough to ensure she has a home if anything should happen; not that it will; a home where she is loved and will be raised to the best of our ability."

"Good. Thank you, on both his and Li's behalf," he said, "she thinks of you as her mother, anyway, never asks for her own. I am glad that she still asks for 'papa' when she is upset ..."

"I noticed, and it's good she remembers him," Jean nodded, "we must keep him in her memory, until he comes home."

"You seem so sure," he looked at her, trying to see into her mind.

"I am," she stated definitely.

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Thomas continued his role as police surgeon and was saddened to have a case of murder. The victim was a young Italian, brought to the country when he was just a baby. It didn't matter that his accent was Australian, or that he farmed the land or that he had legally anglicised his name, married a local girl, all that mattered was the country of his birth was allied to Germany. Ashby and his men scoured the town for suspects. Anyone who voiced their dislike or outright hatred of Italians, Germans or Japanese was taken in for questioning with regard to the case. A group of three or four lads, coming up to twenty one, the age of conscription, had rounded on the victim and taken him to a dark alley one night and beaten the life out of him. Faced with Doug Ashby and Bill Hobart they folded and cried like children.

"All their fault," one sobbed, "now we have to go and fight some bloody war we want no part of."

"Nobody wants war, son," Ashby leant forward across the desk, "not even that lad who leaves a wife and a little 'un. You brought the war to us, here in Ballarat, and you wouldn't have been asked to serve outside our territories anyway. So, instead of fighting in the army, or fighting to keep your families safe you will likely be given the death penalty."

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Jean shook her head when Thomas told her the outcome of the case.

"They may have survived any fighting they would be sent to do," she sighed, "now, what a waste of lives."

"True," Thomas shrugged, "now that young lass has to bring up the child alone ..."

"I went to see her," Jean admitted, "to see if there was anything I could do. Her parents were there, they are moving away, too many sad memories they said."

"Shame."

"I heard from Matthew today," she changed the subject, "he's joining up."

"I would have thought he wouldn't have to, being a police officer," Thomas fingered the peelings on the paper, "I thought they were exempt."

"He's persuaded the top brass to hold his position, his rank," she peeled another potato, "for when he comes back."

"Well, I wish him all the luck in the world," he sighed, "he's a good man."

"He is."

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While Thomas worried about Lucien and Jean worried about him and Lucien and Matthew, the girls continued to grow and thrive. Mary was doing pretty well at school; she had a particular aptitude for English; her writing was often singled out for praise above the others in her class. She had made some friends who would ask her over for tea or to play after school. Jean would allow her to go to only those whose mothers did not pass untoward remarks about her lack of a father or the heritage of her sister. Mary always introduced Li as her sister, Jean didn't correct her, they were as much like sisters as any girls that were born of the same parents. Sometimes Li was invited as well and although she was quite shy Jean would take her along and occasionally leave her while she went to run an errand.

She had collected the girls from a tea party and was walking up towards the avenue with them when a group of older boys started a chant. It wasn't a pleasant chant, referring to Li's Chinese mother. Jean didn't want to draw the child's attention to it, she was happily skipping along with Mary - to her it was just a song - but she quickened her step. Mary knew it was unkind and started to sing Li's favourite song over the top of it, it was in French, the doctor had taught her it and Li joined it. The louder the boys sang the louder Mary and Li sang and Jean joined in until only 'Frere Jacques' could be heard. Jean glanced back as the boys tailed off and made a mental note to speak to their parents. She knew them well and knew they would not be happy with their sons insulting a small child.

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"This has always been a worry of mine," Thomas told her when she told him that evening in the studio, "that people would point the finger and be unkind."

"Truthfully, doctor," Jean sipped her sherry, "she has more western features really. Yes her hair is like her mother's but her eyes are blue like yours and her nose is not unlike Mary's."

"She still looks different, Jean."

"So does the family that run the Chinese restaurant," she huffed and shifted in the chair, "most of the townsfolk take no notice, and those boys wont again, after their parents hear."

"If you're sure," he stared into his whisky, "but if it happens again ..."

"We'll deal with it," she smiled, "though I think Mary will be the one to sort it out."

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Li started school, excited to follow Mary into the building each morning. Jean and the doctor had visited the headmistress; a young woman thrust into the position with so many men volunteering to fight; to discuss the potential for any problems with Li's heritage.

"Well, Mrs Beazley, doctor," she smiled, "Li is a delightful child, and we do have children of mixed parentage in school. Any name calling will be dealt with swiftly and sharply; we'll look after her."

And it seemed they did look after her - all through her first year she enjoyed learning new things, took to reading well and was very good at her number work. Her confidence grew and she had many friends who did not see her as any different to them. She and Mary were very close, where one went the other usually followed, they spent their term breaks in the garden when they could, helping Jean with the vegetable plot and on wet or cold days could be found helping Jean in the kitchen baking or preparing meals. Even though they were still so young Jean found them a great help and Thomas delighted in having young children in the house. There would be no shipping them off to boarding school, something he bitterly regretted doing with Lucien.

Jean and Thomas kept their worries about the war from them, there was no need for them to know too much. Mary knew there was a war going on, and that people she knew, such as Uncle Matthew, had gone away to fight and she added them to her prayers each Sunday when they went to mass. Because of this Jean would always tell both girls if she heard from him and they would add their love to letters back. Li would always ask if her papa had written and Jean and Thomas both said how busy he was, but if he did write they would tell her how much he loved her and missed her. She too, like Mary, added papa to her prayers but Jean prayed the hardest, hoping she was right and that Lucien _and_ Matthew would come home safe.

As the war began to have an effect on those left behind Thomas had to accept things like a chicken for some treatment, if funds were low, unemployment had risen and he had to take account of those who were not able to find work. Jean formed a group of like-minded housewives and housekeepers and they banded together to grow different crops in their gardens and swap one for the other. Dress patterns were shared round, those that could sew would do so for those that couldn't, in exchange for something else, children's clothes were passed on.

Unlike many, they did not build an air raid shelter - Jean, Bill and Thomas spent a day when the girls were at school making the cellar warm and comfortable, with mattresses off the beds that weren't used, blankets and a kerosene lamp for light.

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The girls were in bed when Thomas called Jean through to the living room to listen to the radio.

"They've attacked Pearl Harbour," he gulped, "the Japs have entered the war proper."

Jean could see the fear in his eyes, "so, the Americans," she folded her arms while she thought, "they'll enter too, won't they? I mean, it is their territory."

"Highly likely," he agreed, "we need blackout curtains, or some way to keep the light from showing, at night."

"We have the heavy winter drapes," she sat down on the end of the couch nearest to him, "all we need to do is change from the summer ones and persuade the girls not to open them at night."

"Mary is old enough to understand," he hummed, "she will have to be told, and asked to help with Li, she loves to look at the stars at night."

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They tried to make the best of Christmas that year. Jean made clothes for the girls, pretty dresses using some of the material from the summer curtains.

"And when summer comes, Jean?" Thomas asked as he watched her shake out a pretty dress for Li.

"When we can use summer curtains, doctor," she smiled, "we shall have new ones - to celebrate the end of the war."

Her continued optimism in front of him and the girls rubbed off on him. He had seen action in the Boer War and knew how it affected people, those left behind and those who returned, but her almost innocence infected him and he was able to keep a smile on his face and a cheery word for all his patients. He didn't know she cried at night, for Matthew and for Lucien, and even a few tears for Christopher. How she worried about the girls safety when they went to school, but she would not interrupt their learning, Herr Hitler and Mr Yamamoto could try their best to disrupt her well ordered life but she was not going to give in, her girls and the doctor would be well fed and dressed, loved and protected - in fact Dr Blake thought an army of 'Jeans' would be better than any battalion of politicians and soldiers.

She made sure the girls were not unduly affected, and, as well as new dresses for Christmas she made Li a new rag doll, and put together a collection of children's piano sheet music from various friends with children who had lessons and suggested to Thomas that his gift for Mary would be a weekly piano lesson. She had learnt the names of the notes but up to now had been too shy to ask him if he would teach her and Jean knew she longed to learn.

He nodded and in his study made, from a greetings card, a 'voucher' for piano lessons for the next year, and onwards should she wish to continue.

"What about Li?" he asked, "what can I give a five year old?"

"I admit she is more difficult, loves her dolls and playing dress up."

"I have it," he smiled, but the smile was tinged with sorrow, "wait here."

He headed to the studio and pulled out an ornate box, black with gold scrolled edges and a enamelled painted scene on the lid - Genevieve's jewellery box.

"Doctor!" Jean gasped.

"Don't worry," he lifted the lid and took out the top tray of rings and earrings, "Genevieve had some costume jewellery she used for her models, not worth much, just sentimental value but ... ah, here we are."

He pulled out a long chain on which was a gold locket. He had given Mary something similar one Christmas when she was going through the same phase, "I gave this to Genevieve when Lucien was just a baby, look ..." he opened it, "perhaps she should have it, she would have when I passed anyway, why not now, when her father is so far away."

Jean gazed at a picture of a baby with blond curls looking up, probably at his mother.

"It's beautiful, he was a lovely looking baby," she fingered it, "I shall give it a little polish, shall I?"

"Please," he smiled, "perhaps you will meet him one day."

"I'm sure I will."

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The girls were delighted with their Christmas presents that year, as Thomas said, "sometimes you don't have to spend a fortune to make a day special," as he sipped his whisky on Christmas night, "to absent friends," he raised his glass.

"Indeed, god bless them, each and every one," she joined in the salute with her sherry.

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Of course it was never going to go easily. When the Japanese invaded Singapore and eventually captured it, all Thomas and Jean's self resolve was tested to the limit. The first they knew of Lucien's capture was when an officer arrived at the door to tell them that, as his body had not been found and there had been various rumours of sightings, Major Lucien R Blake was presumed a captive of the invading Japanese forces.

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 **Singapore, February 15, 1942:**

Major Blake could hardly believe what he was hearing. Singapore had fallen to the Japanese, the shelling the city had endured had levelled parts he knew and when they overran the Alexandra Hospital Mei Lin had been killed, along with staff members and patients. She had been working as a ward clerk, just to keep her occupied and stave off her boredom when she was taken with some other nurses. Lucien was devastated but still angry she wouldn't go with Li. Now, here he was, a prisoner of war, determined to stay alive for his daughter.

The camp he was assigned to was as bad as he could imagine. They practically had to build their own living accommodation, scavenge for food and water, medical supplies were negligible and contact with the outside world was almost impossible. The Japanese took their time to inform families of the prisoners that their loved ones were alive, if they bothered at all. Incoming mail, for those whose families had been informed, was scrutinised and censored until there was little to read.

He spent his days treating cases of typhoid fever, dysentery, beatings and other injuries. He challenged the guards, demanding drugs, bandages and dressings, extra food for the sick and was rewarded with beatings, the 'box' - being confined to a tin box in the middle of the quad, in the searing heat without food or water for anything from five to forty days depending on his 'crime'. The worst was forty days for stealing a can of fruit, pineapple, after which he suffered from claustrophobia and bouts of melancholy. But in spite of this he would not give in. He wrote, when he could, hoping his words got through, to his father and daughter. Days turned into weeks, into months, until he wasn't sure how long he had been held prisoner. It was just a long, desperate time. He, as a senior officer, wrote countless letters to relatives, informing them of the sad demise of their husband/father/brother.

Derek Alderton was also interred in the same camp. He paraded about like he was somebody special, but he had been promoted to Major after Lucien which made him junior to the man he had cuckolded. He blamed Lucien for Mei Lin's death, they even fought about it. Their captors saw him for what he was and deferred to Lucien in matters of discipline of the Australian and British internees, though in reality they only paid lip service to him, everything was for show, and Lucien knew it.

Derek was injured, badly, in a disturbance one day. There had been an attempt at an escape, unsuccessful of course, but he had been caught and bayonetted. Lucien had had to stitch him back together though Derek asked him not to bother.

"We'll never get out of this hell hole," he grimaced and winced with pain, "you may as well save yourself the trouble."

Lucien ignored him and carried on stitching, leaving a scar that would always remind him of their time and 'friendship'.

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Sometimes Lucien's letters did get through, rare occasions but almost occasions to celebrate - at least they knew he was alive. Thomas kept every one of the short notes, reading them over and over again, telling Li her father was a brave man and doing his best for other brave soldiers who were not able to get home, either.

There was one letter he kept from Jean, at least the details. Christopher had turned to Lucien for treatment on a festering wound. Private Beazley was a sulky and difficult patient. He complained about the poultices Lucien prescribed, moaned about the pain until Major Blake gave him a piece of his mind, pointing out he had much worse injuries to tend to in his makeshift hospital and if he didn't shut up he was minded to remove the leg, altogether. In truth he did think it may come to that, the wound was not getting any better and he couldn't understand why. He asked another private, a medical orderly, to watch him, and he was disturbed at what was told to him. Christopher was deliberately rubbing dirt into the wound, that way he could enjoy the little comfort the hospital offered.

"Right," Lucien gritted his teeth, "leave this to me." He stormed out, to confront him.

"I don't have the supplies to waste on someone like you," he hauled him to his feet, "if I find out that you are purposefully infecting this wound again I shall have to amputate. The infection alone could kill you, so stop being so bloody stupid."

Christopher gaped, then sulked, all the while wondering how he could make his life more comfortable in the camp.

He watched a group of men, constantly in a huddle, behind the latrines - the most unsavoury part of the camp. They would stop talking when he appeared, rub out what they had drawn in the dust, he was sure they were planning something, an escape? Even after the last one had failed soldiers still felt it their duty to escape.

Christopher thought he was strong enough, smart enough to form his own plan and started to plot a route out of the camp, at night. Sure he had worked it out, and with his leg healed enough for him to stand a long walk he put his plan into action.

There was a little dip under part of the fence, and beyond it cover was provided by vegetation. He had spent time sitting in this spot, manipulating the fence so it was easy to lift enough for him to crawl out. It was a moonless night when he tried the escape but it was too much in the open. He hadn't banked on the patrol and as his foot was just about to disappear under the fence he found himself being dragged back into the camp, shouts went up and he was surrounded by rifles pointing directly at his head. The noise woke everybody else and they peered out from their huts. Major Blake, as Senior Allied Officer, went to see what was going on. He was furious with Private Beazley but went to the Commandant's office with him.

Christopher was placed in the 'box'.

He screamed, kicked the sides, for hours each day, then would collapse, exhausted until he found the strength from somewhere to start again. Lucien passed the box on numerous occasions and told him to shut up, he was making it worse for himself and for his fellow captives. The Japanese regarded him as a coward and typical of his race. Beatings increased, patrols became more frequent, interrogations almost hourly, Lucien worked flat out to keep the men alive. In the end the Japanese could stand it no longer, dragged him out and shot him, in front of the rest of them.

Lucien wrote to his parents telling them he had been executed for an attempt at escape. He was very sorry, he told them, life in the camp was not pleasant and he didn't blame the boy for wanting to find a way out. He wrote to his father, wondering if Mrs Beazley was related to Christopher as she had the same name and they came from the same town. If so, would he pass on his condolences.

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Thomas couldn't bring himself to tell her her ex-husband had died a coward, so just gently informed her that he had been executed by the Japanese for attempting to escape. It was the one letter he destroyed, the one he couldn't bear her to find if she had to clear out after his death.

He wrote to Lucien and told him that Christopher had been married to Jean, but it was a shotgun wedding and Jean had survived quite well without him, thank you very much. He didn't want his son to think he had taken a woman of dubious character in, especially as Lucien had named Jean as a possible guardian to his beloved daughter. He also told him that, if he and Jean should ever meet, he was never to tell her the truth about Christopher.

Jean had thanked Thomas for his kindness in telling her about Christopher's death, saying he always was careless.

"I did love him, once," she sniffed, the tears had come and gone, "but we were too young and he was not aware of how he hurt people with his need to be the one at the top of the pile. I hope he is at peace, for now I do believe he was not a happy person."

"You are too generous, Jean," Thomas squeezed her arm, "but maybe you are right, he wanted more than he could find. Though I do believe that he would have found what he needed in you."

It was months before Lucien received the letter, and it saddened him that a woman who his father held in such high regard had been forced to marry a man who had obviously taken a young and innocent girl and stripped that innocence away from her. From all his letters all Lucien had ever gleaned was that Jean was ... well ... practically perfect.

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 **1945:**

Jean looked at her daughter, now almost as tall as she and brushed away a tear. Where had the past twelve years gone?

Mary twirled round, holding out the skirt of the dress Jean had made for her, to celebrate the end of the war. Japan had finally surrendered and though they had celebrated when Germany surrendered now that Japan had given up the fight Ballarat had decided that a proper celebration was due. A bonfire and fireworks had been arranged, there would be food, provided by the restaurants, the Colonist's Club and the good people of the town, who had raided their cupboards, baked cakes and biscuits and bread, roasted meats ... the girls were very excited, they would be allowed to stay up long past their normal bedtimes. Li burst in, swinging the skirt of her new dress and laughing. She too was growing up bright and lively, intelligent; both girls were good scholars; and beautiful. Mary favoured her mother in looks, deep blue - green eyes, chestnut curls and a ready smile. Li had a likeness to her mother, with her straight black hair and almond eyes, but those eyes were blue, like her father's; according to her grandpapa; and her face was more western than Oriental. Thus far they had grown up loved, kept safe, surrounded only by those that would see them learn that there was good in the world in spite of what they heard.

There was a knock on the door and Mary dashed up the hall to answer it. Jean laughed, perhaps one day she would be more ladylike, but for now ...

The door was flung open;

Mary stood open mouthed, she knew she recognised the man standing before her but hadn't seen him for so long.

"Miss Mary Beazley," he smiled, "my how you've grown."

"Uncle Matthew?" she whispered.

"I am," he nodded.

"Uncle Matthew!" she flung herself at him, "it's Uncle Matthew!" she dragged him in and down the hall, "look everybody, Uncle Matthew's back!"

Jean looked round the kitchen doorway and smiled, indeed it was 'Uncle Matthew'. She stepped forward her arms outstretched, "Matthew, how wonderful to see you," she tiptoed up and kissed his cheek, she had always been fond of him, as a friend, "how are you? Why didn't you say you were coming home?"

"Hello Jean," he kissed her cheek, "you look well."

"All things considered," she stood back and looked at him, a little thinner than she remembered him, "we do pretty well. Are you here for the bonfire?"

"Yes, and I'm staying," he nodded, "got a place in the force here, Senior Sergeant Matthew Lawson at your service, ma'am," he grinned and mock saluted her.

Li stood back, she didn't remember Matthew and was still reticent around strangers.

"This is Li, Matthew," Jean stepped aside and took her hand, "Li, I know you don't remember Uncle Matthew, but this is he."

"Miss Blake," Matthew removed his hat, "how nice to meet you." His voice was soft as he held out his hand for her to shake. He could see quite a bit of his old friend in her.

"Hello Uncle Matthew," she whispered, shyly.

Thomas, having heard the commotion came to find out who had come to visit, he thought he had heard the name 'Matthew', but his hearing was not as good as it had been.

"Well, well, well," he smiled, advancing with his hand extended, "Matthew Lawson, good to see you, boy."

"Doctor," Matthew smiled warmly, to hide the surprise at Thomas' obvious aging. He now used a cane and his step wasn't as sprightly as he remembered. Jean had said, in her letters, that his hearing was less acute, and his years had begun to show, 'but he is in relatively good spirits,' she had written, 'especially when we hear from his son.'

They shook hands and Thomas took him into the study. He wanted to tell him what Lucien had said about Christopher's death and conduct in the camp.

"I need you to know, in case Jean finds out and needs support," he sighed, "you knew Christopher, knew what he could be like. Lucien only knew him as a private in the army and his patient in the camp. I have asked him never to tell Jean the truth, she was hurt badly by him and I don't want her to find out that as well as being a bully he was also a coward."

"I understand, Doc," Matthew nodded, "she won't hear from me, nor will his parents, who I believe still live nearby."

"They do, but we don't see much of them, though Jean does exchange Christmas cards with them," Thomas hummed, "Mary receives birthday cards ..." he pursed his lips when he thought of Mary's reaction when they didn't send Li one, on her second birthday. She couldn't understand why they wouldn't, Li was her sister...

It had taken quite a bit of explaining by both Jean and Thomas to finally have her understand that Li was not related to them in any way. She still thought it was mean, but, ever since then she had made sure she gave Li the best card she could make. Thomas found it rather ironic that Mary, who was not related to his late wife, was the better artist of the two. Li was more of a mathematician and scientist, like her father.

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The celebration bonfire was every bit as wonderful as Mary and Li had imagined. They saw so many of their friends, danced and sang with everyone, Jean said later it was probably heard in Melbourne. Thomas sat out the dancing but delighted in watching his granddaughters, for he regarded both as such, and Jean be whirled about by both Matthew and Bill, her head thrown back in laughter.

Someone had provided champagne, probably the club, Jean thought as she allowed her girls to try a sip from her glass. Cec Drury, more a friend of the doctor's than hers, was manning a bar, of sorts, at a trestle table.

Michael Tyneman was keeping an eye on the proceedings, watching his son pay attention to most of the women, while Susan, his daughter in law, kept a close eye on their son, Edward. Edward was eleven, pompous, like his father, a little bully at school, particularly to the girls. Mrs Beazley had gone to see Mr Tyneman, senior, when Mary told her that Edward was being exceedingly unpleasant to Li. Li had seemed to close down, at one time, been reluctant to go to school by herself, and Mary finally got it out of her. Edward called her names, told her her father had left her, not wanted her because he had sent her away. Michael had assured her he would deal with it and had told Patrick, his son, that if he heard anything more about Edward bullying other children the boy would be sent to the toughest boarding school he could find.

"You spoil him, Patrick," he had grunted, "he needs to know there are rules, in life, Dr Blake is a good man, his son is in a POW camp, that little girl needs kind words not to be faced by a jumped up little brat like Edward ... sort him out, or I will!"

Patrick had sulked, but went to tell Edward to lay off Li.

"She's not worth it, Edward," he huffed, "half chink, only Lucien Blake could produce a half breed."

So Edward heeded his father's words, probably for the one and only time in his life.

But tonight Edward was terrorising another poor child whose father was stooping down towards the boy and glaring. Jean didn't want to know what he was saying but from Edward's expression in wasn't pleasant.

She looked over and saw Mary dancing with another boy, from school. Young Danny Parks - she liked him, he was a relation of sorts. He was her cousin; the son of her mother's much younger sister; which made him Mary's second cousin, a tall, skinny boy with ambitions to join the police force one day. Li had gone to sit with her grandfather, the hour was late and she was beginning to feel tired.

"Perhaps, Li," Thomas patted her hand, "we should call it a night."

"Oh no, Grandpapa," she took his hand and leant on his shoulder, "it's lovely just to watch, don't you think?" She sighed, "I wish papa was here."

"So do I darling child," he put his arm round her, "and when he does come home, we shall have a party all of our own."

"A quiet dinner at home," she whispered, "just us."

"I think he'd like that, sweetheart," he kissed her head.

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The relieving forces could hardly believe the sight that met them at the gates of the prison camp. Men, little more than skeletons, were sitting in groups the life practically burned out of them. Their skin was dry, paper thin, burnt from days out in the sun, building roads and railways, living off half a bowl of rice a day and rancid water. Alcohol brewed from the remains of vegetables sneaked away from their captors or grown in a small plot in the corner of the yard, had been their relief from the rigours of the toil and the misery of captivity. There was only a fraction of the numbers left from those that had been taken originally; some had perished at the hands of the captors and some to illness and the deprivations of their lives.

Lucien stood as upright as he could, thin, the remains of his uniform hung off his frame, but he swore that he would march out of the camp or die in the trying.

"Sir, Captain Armstrong, at your service," the officer greeted him with a sharp salute, as he tried to hide his horror at the sight.

"Blake, Major, Doctor Lucien R Blake," Lucien returned his salute, "good to see you, son," he dropped his hand and extended it for a warm shake.

"We are arranging transport to medical facilities, sir," Armstrong set a pace he thought acceptable for a man who had suffered such deprivations as he could see, "food, drink, baths ..."

"I think the baths will be the most welcome, many of the men are infested with lice, it's not easy to control in these conditions."

"Of course, sir, and the debrief ..." Armstrong thought men like Major Blake should be allowed sometime to gather their thoughts before being debriefed, but brass thought otherwise.

"Hmm..." Lucien hummed and shrugged his shoulders. "I think the men would like to let their families know they have survived."

"Of course," Armstrong agreed, "we shall take names and send the telegrams."

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 **Two months later, in Ballarat:**

Jean wanted so desperately to read the telegram that sat on the table but for once she knew she shouldn't. It was addressed to Li and she knew deep in her heart it was from her father, that he had survived, a telegram to the contrary would have been sent to Thomas - at least she hoped it would.

Li and Mary came in from school.

They had met up in town to buy their grandfather a book for his birthday, he had developed a fondness for Raymond Chandler's writings and they had found a copy of "Farewell, My Lovely" in the local bookshop which they knew he hadn't managed to obtain. So popular, it was never in the library and copies had sold out when they were originally stocked.

They were talking about what Mary would put on the card she would design, she always made them and she and Li would sign it. Thomas had kept every one of the cards from the girls over the years, from the ones Jean had helped them sign when they were only just able to hold a pencil to the ones that Mary now designed, they were among his most treasured possessions.

"Hello, mum," Mary grinned, waving the small package, "gran'pa holding surgery?" Mary had taken to calling him 'gran'pa' eventually, as she told him once, "Li calls my mother, mama, so - do you mind?"

"Absolutely not, dear child," he had kissed her forehead, "I am honoured," he winked.

"Out at the hospital," Jean smiled, "drink?"

"Tea, please," Mary nodded glancing at the telegram.

"Me too, please," Li flopped onto a chair. "Who's the telegram for?"

Jean smiled a little, "you, Li," she passed it across, "it's for you."

Li turned it over in her hand, then slowly opened it. She was old enough at nine years, to know they could hold good as well as bad news. Her hand went to her mouth and her eyes widened. Jean thought it was the worst and quickly prepared for an onslaught of tears.

"Oh," Li whispered, "it's papa ... he's coming home," she paused, "he's coming home! HE'S COMING HOME!" She jumped up and threw herself at Jean, "Papa's coming home!"

Mary and Jean wrapped their arms round her and they danced a clumsy dance round the kitchen laughing and squealing with pure joy. Which was how Thomas found them, when he returned from the hospital.

He was as delighted as they were and hugged Li, then Jean then Mary.

"Does it say when?" he asked when they finally stopped whirling around.

"No," Li admitted and pouted, "but it will be soon, won't it?" her eyes widened and she stared at her gran'papa.

"I'm sure he will let us know," Jean stroked her head.

"Knowing Lucien," Thomas remarked ruefully, "he will probably just turn up as if he has been out for a walk."

"Bit of a long walk, father," a voice drifted from the kitchen door, "are we celebrating something?"

"Lucien!"

"Papa!?" she launched herself at him.

"Hello, Li," the owner of the voice spoke softly, "you are so beautiful."

He pulled out a chair and sat down, indicating she sit on his knee.

"I'm a bit big, papa," she smiled, but did as he asked.

"Never, darling girl," he kissed her cheek and she snuggled into his shoulder.

There was a moment of stunned silence then he looked around, "Mrs Beazley, I presume," he offered his hand across the table.

"Major," she shook it gently, he looked more fragile than she expected, but he had been through a lot, "so nice to meet you, at last." She turned to Mary, "this is my daughter, Mary."

"Lovely to meet you, Miss Beazley," he shook her hand, "I believe you and Li are sisters."

"I, er ..." Mary blushed.

"Not in the biological sense," he smiled, Jean noticed his blue eyes, just like Li's, lit up when he smiled, "but you have been just that to her, and I thank you for it."

"Lucien," Thomas managed to choke out, "my boy..."

Lucien turned to him; in truth he had been unsure how he would feel, seeing his father again. Though they had corresponded over the years since he had joined the army he was still harbouring a little of the resentment he felt for being parcelled off to boarding school so long ago, but now ... there was a warmth and a sadness in the older man's eyes that he hadn't expected. The atmosphere in the kitchen told him it was a happy house and that Li was loved.

Jean watched them touch hands and knew, in her heart, that though there be bumps along the way they would be fine, together. She cleared her throat, "tea, Dr Blake," she returned to formality.

"Tea would be lovely, Jean," Thomas turned and smiled, blinking away tears, "and there's no need to call me doctor, Thomas will do, it always has."

"And," Lucien smiled, tiredly "with two Dr Blake's in the house ... I'm Lucien."

"In that case ... Jean," she smiled, a touch shyly. She was not sure about being over familiar, Li had had a nanny, when she was a baby, there had been servants, she thought.

"Good," he settled in the chair and watched her make the tea. He had seen a photograph, once, when he father had sent it to show Li who she might be staying with. She didn't seem to have changed. Slim, upright, chestnut curls and blue green eyes; it was nice to put colour to the black and white image; and as she moved about the room, a swing to her hips ... he had been without female company for a long time and had been too drained after his release to think about such things, but now, he would have to be careful, she was really quite lovely.

Jean, in her turn, watched him. He was thin, but that wasn't surprising, she suspected that if he filled out a bit he would be a very handsome man, with his blue eyes; she kept thinking about those eyes; a beard, that needed tidying up, but she thought it suited him, he was tanned and the sun had bleached his hair, which she thought would be blond, with perhaps a hint of red - she had never thought much about the looks of some men she had met in the course of her life, although Christopher had been handsome, darkly so. This man stirred something in her that she had long thought dead. 'Pull yourself together, woman,' she inwardly chided herself, 'he is your employer's son and newly released from the most dreadful place. The last thing he needs is a desperate woman throwing herself at him.'

She did not sit with them to have tea instead she excused herself to put fresh linen on Lucien's bed. "I didn't make it up again, after the Stanton boys slept there," she smiled.

"Would you like some help, mum?" Mary didn't think she should be there, in the kitchen, while Thomas' family got reacquainted.

"Thank you, love," she nodded, "would you go and get the sheets while I open the window."

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Li slipped off her father's lap so he could drink his tea, but sat in the chair next to him and held his hand. She watched him intensely, this was the photograph brought to life, that looked over her each night as she lay in her bed.

"I'm glad you're safe, son," Thomas whispered, "so very glad."

"Thank you, father," Lucien hummed, "Li, sweetheart, I don't suppose there's a biscuit about, only ..."

Li jumped up and fetched the tin, "mama made these," she took the lid off, "gran'papa hasn't eaten all of them, yet."

Lucien noticed she said 'mama', he wasn't surprised, his father had written as much in his letters, and indeed Jean had brought her up. He reached in and took a piece of shortbread, "thank you, love," he nibbled the sweet and buttery confection, "delicious," he smiled.

"Thank you," Jean appeared in the kitchen, "your room is ready, did you bring any luggage with you? Can I see to anything for you?"

"There is a suitcase in the hall," he pushed the chair back, "and a trunk in on its way."

"Sit," she touched his shoulder gently, but all the same he winced, "I'll take it through."


	8. Chapter 8

Jean placed the suitcase on the end of the bed and decided that was all she should do, for now. She had no idea how long he had been travelling, or if the case was full of laundry that needed seeing to. He had arrived in uniform, so she assumed his civilian attire was stowed there. She looked round the room, again, to make sure it was to her liking, not too bright, but cheerful and inviting. She had checked the bulb in the bedside lamp and wound the little clock and set it to the correct time. She smoothed down an imaginary crease in the bedcover and left the room.

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Thomas didn't know what to say to Lucien and Lucien didn't know how to start a conversation with his father. They drank their tea in silence until Thomas asked Li how school had been, that day.

"It was alright," she shrugged, "Miss Craven said we were going to learn French, but then she changed her mind and we did sewing instead," she pouted.

"Both of which you are good at," Thomas turned to his son, "Jean has taught her to sew and I have brushed up my French teaching her - because she asked about your mother."

"I wish we could sew something interesting though," the young girl continued, "we had to hem the edge of a hankie."

"Sometimes, Li sweetheart," Lucien smiled gently, "we have to do things we don't want to, but if you are good at something can't you help the others?"

"Miss Craven won't let us," she sulked.

"You may remember Esther Craven, Lucien," Thomas huffed, "your year at Grammar School?"

"Esther Craven," he hummed and thought, "ah, yes, I believe I do."

"Papa?"

"Don't you worry about Miss Craven, Li," he smiled, "give me some time, please ..."

"Let him settle in, Li," Thomas interrupted, "he's had a long journey."

"Sorry, of course, papa," she felt heartened that he would, eventually, help he with this particular problem. Miss Craven was not the most gentle of teachers and everybody knew she had never liked it that she was overlooked for the head teacher's post in favour of a woman from out of town, a younger one, at that.

"No worries, darling," he smiled, he felt so at ease with her when he had thought their reunion would be stilted, tentative, but she had positively thrown herself into his arms. "Now, if you don't mind, I should like to speak to gran'papa for a while."

"That's ok," she grinned, "I should help mama with dinner, shouldn't I gran'papa?"

"I'm sure she'd like that."

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Li was on her own in the kitchen, washing up the tea things, Mary was playing a practise piece on the piano, after she had helped her mother all she could, when Jean went to start the evening meal. She immediately knew Lucien and Thomas had gone to the study to talk. She hoped this would ease Lucien's way back into the family for Thomas had confided that he was unsure how his son would feel, coming home after so long, to see and speak to his father after such a long time silent to each other.

"You have corresponded, though," she reminded him, "for some time now, though, and he asked you to look after his child."

"It's how we parted, Jean," he sighed, "that's what matters, I sent him away at a very vulnerable time and I can't take that back."

She knew they would both need time but she would go on as usual, and that meant preparing dinner.

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Lucien looked round the small study, little changed from what he remembered. There were photographs on the bookshelf, him and his mother, his parents on their wedding day next to the one he had sent of him and Mei Lin. A couple of Li and Mary and some of Li on her own. He sat down opposite the desk, Thomas sat in his customary seat, paused, then leaned forward on the desk.

"Lucien," he sighed, "oh my boy, you don't know how glad I am to see you. I should never have sent you away ..." he knew he was rushing an apology of sorts, but having started, "... when you started to write to me, I thought , perhaps you wanted to let me know you didn't need me, ever, but ... when you wrote more, all about your life, your marriage ..."

"You weren't pleased about it, were you?" Lucien grunted.

"Pleased, I don't know if that was the word, it took time, to accept it, I admit, but Jean reminded me I had done the same, by marrying your mother and I saw from the picture she loved you and you looked happy, so I was happy for you." Thomas took a breath and waited.

"I thought she loved me, I cling to that because I don't know if she did," Lucien picked at a broken nail, "not now. When she refused to come to you and I sent Li she didn't seem bothered. She told me she had the child because that was what I wanted, it was her duty, she said, to give me a child."

"Lucien," Thomas reached over, "I don't know what to say ..."

"There's nothing you can say, and it's too late now, Li is the best thing to come out of my marriage," Lucien sighed and Thomas could see the sadness in his eyes, tears that should be shed, "I don't know what I would have done if I couldn't send her here, even though, when I thought of it I had no idea how you would react or how you would look after her or how Mrs Beazley was with children."

"Ah, yes," Thomas allowed himself a little smile, "I'm sorry I didn't tell you about her, other than that she is my housekeeper ... I thought you might get the wrong idea, given she is about five years younger than you."

"I admit I imagined a rather stout woman wielding a rolling pin if you were a second late for dinner." He laughed. "Dad," Lucien leant forward, changing the subject "it's not going to be easy, I'm still in the army, for now, I don't know how I'll cope, here, and I can't take Li away, I won't take her from her home."

"But you will stay, for a while ... please."

"I'm on extended leave, until after Christmas, sick leave, if you will ..."

"Will you leave the army, eventually?"

"Honestly, dad, at the moment I have no idea," he sat back, "they want me, or rather certain people want me for my languages, possibly espionage ... I don't know, I really don't," his voice caught, "I've missed Li growing up, she's nine, I don't know her and I want to. I want ..." he stood up and ran his hand over his head, "oh god I wish I knew!"

Thomas stood up and grabbed both his hands, "Son, look at me," he commanded, "you need to rest, to recuperate from what you have been through ... plenty of sleep, good food maybe some exercise ... take your time, Lucien ... the army owes you that."

Lucien was too tired to argue and part of him knew his father was right, part of him, a tiny part, hated him for it. For now, he would acquiesce and eat and sleep in his father's house and get to know his daughter. There were things they would talk about over the days, weeks he was there.

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Feeling dusty from his journey and the walk up from the station, Lucien decided he'd be better washing and changing out of uniform before dinner. He went to his room, instinctively the one he had slept in as a boy and on his infrequent visits home, and found it a haven of calm. Jean had left the window slightly open, letting in a cool breeze, the bed was covered with a dark eiderdown and a blanket in subtle shades was folded at the foot. She had left his case; unopened; on the bed, and a robe on the back of the door. It must have been one of his father's, he didn't recall leaving one or seeing it before. Still, she had thought there wasn't room for one in his small valise.

He wondered how they stood for hot water, did his father still heat it up twice a day? Jean would know, she seemed to be on top of things. He headed to the kitchen with his wash kit.

"Er ..." he cleared his throat, Jean looked up from preparing vegetables, "would there be enough hot water for me to have a wash?"

"Plenty," she smiled gently, "dinner will be in an hour, so if you want to soak away your travels ..."

"You know, Jean," he hesitated over the name, "I'd really appreciate that."

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He lay in the warm water, eyes closed, sleep threatening to overwhelm him while he considered his options. He had been welcomed home, like the prodigal son, into an oasis of calm. Jean did not seem in the least perturbed about his presence ... was she used to people just turning up and staying? The offer of a bath was not made with the undertone that he smelt, but with genuine thought for his comfort, she had probably put the immersion heater on especially for him. She hadn't pried by opening his suitcase and putting away his clothes or taking the laundry to wash ... laundry, he had some things that needed washing, dare he just drop them in the basket in his room? She was the housekeeper, that was what she did, though she seemed more than that. The four of them, that lived in this house, seemed more of a family that he, his wife and baby daughter had ever seemed and again he was glad he had sent Li here. As to the question his father asked; would he be leaving the army? Darn right he would - he'd had enough of the top brass endlessly offering him undercover work in the Far East because of his mastery of Mandarin and working knowledge of Japanese he had picked up in the camp. He didn't want to do that, to sneak around, eavesdropping on conversations, inveigling himself into situations, just because he was able to do so. He wasn't sure what he wanted but it wasn't that, not now he had seen Li and had even that short talk with his father. Perhaps his R&R here would help him work out what he _did_ want.

He wrapped the soft towel round his waist and wiped the steam off the mirror to study his body. He knew he had lost weight, that he was covered in dreadful scars from the beatings he had endured, now, here, perhaps he could regain his strength, fill out his rangy frame. He took his razor and tidied up his beard, his hair needed cutting but he could leave that until tomorrow when he could go to the barber's shop. He'd see which one his father went to these days, his hair, sparse though it was, was neatly cut. His father - older; the years showing with his cane, his cupping his ear to hear more clearly - still working he assumed, the plaque was on the gate post: a little gentle GP work would be nice, for a change, he thought, and he had to provide for Li.

Satisfied his appearance was better, tidier, he put the robe Jean had left out for him on, and smiled at the softness of it. He did have one in his case, silk, oriental design, but this was what he needed - comfort.

In his room he dropped his laundry into the basket and dressed in a clean white shirt, suit trousers, tie and waistcoat. He was tempted to put the jacket on, but his father had already changed into a cardigan so he hoped he didn't have to dress for dinner. If the shortbread was anything to go by, the meal should be tasty. He tamed his hair with hair-cream, his curls were still wild. Fastening his watch on his wrist and, slipping shoes on, he went in search of the family.

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"No, Jean, the kitchen will be fine," Thomas had smiled when she asked if he wanted to eat in the dining room, with the finer crockery, "it's a family meal."

So, when Lucien reappeared, freshened up from his bath, Li was setting the table in the kitchen and Mary was helping put the meal into serving dishes. He watched them tip peas and carrots into two different dishes, spoon mounds of creamy mashed potato into another, pour thick rich looking gravy into a gravy boat and place them all on the table. Jean was about to carve a roast chicken when he wondered if he ought to play his part.

"Shall I?" he held his hands out for the carving set, "been a while," he smiled.

Jean passed the things over and put the plate in front of his place, "your father is not the best at carving," she whispered, "let's see how you do," she smiled a genuine smile that told him he was welcome to find his place in the family.

"I'll go and get gran'pa, shall I mum?" Mary set a pan to soak in the sink.

"Please, he needs to open the wine," she nodded and looked to see what Lucien made of her daughter referring to his father as 'gran'pa'. He didn't seem to notice, either that or he wasn't bothered.

Lucien, for his part, as he carved the chicken; neatly; wondered if he would get Jean's full story, either from her or his father. She interested him, any man who married her would be a lucky one, he thought, so what had gone wrong with Christopher? Knowing what he knew about him, which was precious little, he could see they were patently unsuited to one another. She was strong, capable - seemed to take things in her stride. Private Beazley was anything but. When she found out he was coming home ... home ... yes, he was home ... anyway she was probably thinking she would have a week, at least, to prepare. But no, he breezes in moments after the telegram was read, and she carries on as if it is nothing unusual.

Thomas entered the room rubbing his hands together, "smells delicious, as always, Jean" he pulled out his chair and sat down, "ah, Lucien, Jean's relinquished control of the carving knife, has she?" he winked at the girls and Li giggled.

"You'd better tell me when I've put enough on your plates," Lucien lifted a slice of meat and put it on the first plate, "father?"

"Ladies first, son," Thomas waved his hand at Jean.

"Absolutely," he nodded and plated up, stopping when each diner indicated there was enough.

The dishes were passed round and each helped themselves to as much as they wanted, or could eat. Jean noticed Lucien's portions were small, but if he had been in a prison camp; and his letters had indicated food was in short supply; perhaps his appetite was a little stunted. She made a mental note to let him know the biscuit tin was always on the side, and she would tempt him with mid morning snacks and tea and biscuits or cake in the afternoon.

They talked about what their days had contained, school for the girls and hospital and patients for Thomas, local chatter from Jean, though not gossip, Lucien noticed.

"Nell Clasby hasn't been this week, Jean," Thomas noted, "can you make an appointment for her?"

"Of course, but I thought she was due today," Jean swallowed a mouthful of dinner.

"She was, skipped again," Thomas grinned then turned to his son, "she's being difficult over her blood pressure, son, any suggestions?"

"Celery," Lucien took a mouthful of wine, "the Chinese swear by it and I found it effective. It only needs to be used in cooking or eaten as a vegetable."

"I shall give it a try," Thomas nodded, "any port in a storm."

"That is the Miss Clasby I knew, isn't it?" Lucien asked, "her and Agnes used to give me sweets."

"They did that to the girls, when they were small," Jean finished her meal, "now I think it is more likely to be magazines or make-up."

"Mum," Mary laughed, "Miss Agnes and Miss Nell give me more sophisticated chocolate, now."

"I get jelly babies," Li laughed, "I love them."

Jean shook her head and Lucien laughed. It was the first proper laugh he had given in years, he thought.

The talk continued over the dessert of custard tart, so light Lucien found himself requesting a second slice. Jean was more than willing to cut a piece for him, glad that he was eating an extra piece, and what was bad about eggs and milk?

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Jean shooed the men out of the kitchen while she and Mary washed up. Li took her father's hand and went with them.

As they passed through the living room, Lucien made to sit down in one of the chairs.

"No, papa," Li tugged gently, "through here, in the evening," and she led him into the studio, which he thought would still be locked.

"Jean persuaded me to open it," Thomas mumbled, almost shyly, "she wanted to see your mother's work ..."

The fire was burning in the grate, there was a decanter of whisky and one of sherry on the table with the required glasses, the gold leaf sparkled in the light from the side lamps and fire and it all smelt of polish and wood-smoke.

Lucien swallowed, it all felt different, but the same, comforting and with his mother's work scattered around the room, it was home. He had spent a lot of time here, while she worked. She would talk to him in French, making him bilingual, explain about the colours, which ones she could mix together to make the secondary and tertiary colours and then float tiny pieces of the gold leaf on the warm thermals from the fire, to the ceiling.

Thomas held up the whisky and he nodded, wondering at the strength and positive nature of the young woman his father had taken on as housekeeper.

"You must tell me more about Jean," he sat down on the couch, "why did you take such a young woman as your housekeeper, I remember Ballarat as being a hotbed of gossip."

"Perhaps she should be the one to tell, Lucien," his father sat in his usual chair by the fire, "otherwise you will turn me into a gossip." He smiled and looked up as Jean entered the room, "what say you, Mrs Beazley? Will you tell my son your story?"

"I'm sure he doesn't want to hear all my troubles," she smiled softly, "anyway it's not that interesting."

"As long as you aren't an axe murderer, Mrs Beazley," he teased, "then I shall be happy to learn about you in your own time."

"Depends on the provocation," she gave as good as she got, he made her feel comfortable in this house that had become her home.

"Don't leave wet towels on the bathroom floor," Li snuggled close to Lucien, "it's mama's pet hate."

"Ah, right," he made to get up, Li tugged him down and laughed.

"I've already checked, papa," she squeezed his hand, "you're safe tonight."

"Phew!" he blew out in mock relief. "So," he changed the subject, "who was playing the piano, earlier?"

"Erm," Mary looked down, "that was me, Major."

"You play well, my dear," he smiled, "and, let's go for Uncle Lucien, shall we, this isn't an army camp; if your mother doesn't mind." He looked to see what Jean's reaction was.

"That's very kind of you, Lucien," Jean nodded, "Mary has been learning since she was eight, your father kindly teaches her."

"She's also a very good artist," Thomas added his praise.

"And you, Li, sweetheart?" Lucien looked at his daughter, "do you play or paint?"

"I'm afraid I'm not a good artist papa," she stuck her lower lip out, "gran'papa has offered to teach me the piano ..."

"Your father plays, or he did," Thomas smiled at her, "though I had trouble getting him to practise."

"Li is an excellent seamstress," Jean pointed out, "and anything that requires precision we go to her."

"Ah, mathematics and science, then," Lucien winked at her.

"I'd like to be a doctor, like gran'papa and you," she whispered, "do you think I can be, even though I'm a girl."

"Absolutely, my child," Lucien hugged her, "you can be anything you want to be, if you set your mind to it. Anyway," he drew his brows together, "what's being a girl got to do with it?"

"The boys at school, they say doctors are men," she pouted.

"I've met quite a few rather good women doctors, darling," Lucien kissed the top of her head.

"That's what Jean and I keep telling her," Thomas sipped his whisky.

"Miss Craven says we girls have to learn to cook and sew so we can be good wives to our husbands."

"I thought that kind of thinking went out with the ark," Lucien huffed as he thought back to his time in the school where he knew Esther Craven. Always so prim and proper, tight lipped, perfect plaits with perfectly tied ribbons, never a hole in her stockings. He and Matthew used to take delight in dipping her plaits into the inkwells while she sat, her back ramrod straight, in front of one or the other of them in class. So much for being able to cook and sew to be a good wife, if she was still unmarried.

"Anyway, time to chat more tomorrow, and the day after ..." Thomas sighed, "...and the day after that?" Li asked eagerly.

"...time for bed, Miss Li," Thomas looked at Lucien, "you have school tomorrow."

"Can't I stay up a little longer?" she tipped her head and batted her eyelashes at her grandfather.

"Li," Lucien smiled, "if grandpapa says it's bedtime ... don't think that because I don't know, you can get away with it."

"Ok, papa," she wrapped her arms round him, "I'm so glad you came home."

"So am I," he buried his face in her hair to hide the tears, happy though they were, "but we have so much time to catch up, and we will, I promise."

"Good night, Li," Jean smiled as she walked as slowly as she could out of the studio, "sleep well."

"Goodnight, mama," Li heaved a heavy sigh, "and gran'papa."

"Goodnight, sweetheart," Thomas nodded.

"I think I'll head up too," Mary stood up, "I have a history test tomorrow." She bent down and hugged her mother then went over to Thomas and did the same to him, "goodnight, gran'pa," she hummed.

"Goodnight, Mary," Lucien smiled at her, "sleep well."

"You too ... Uncle Lucien," she hesitated.

He beamed at the use of the title, it gave him a warm glow.

"'night love," Jean smiled and squeezed her hand as she passed.

"G'night, mum."

The adults sat quietly, listening to the noises of the young girls, a thought seemed to flit across Lucien's face.

"D'ye think Li's too old to be read to, a bedtime story?" he swilled the remains of his whisky round his glass.

"No, I don't think so," Jean replied softly, "I think she'd like that. They share a room, always have done, so Mary will be listening too, if that's alright."

"I suppose so," he shifted and put the glass down, "I suppose she has a book she's reading?"

"By her bed. She usually reads for ten minutes or so, before she turns out the light," Jean agreed.

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Li looked up from her book and smiled, "papa?"

"I, er ... I know you're nine, Li," he sat on the edge of the bed, "but I never had chance to read to you, bedtime stories ... may I?" he held his hand out for the book.

Li passed him the book and shuffled down into the bed. As Lucien found the place she had stopped at he began to read and soon lost himself in the story, his expressive tones brought the story to life and Mary stopped reading her own book in favour of listening to Uncle Lucien. He finished the chapter and closed the book, watching for a reaction. Two faces, eyes wide with wonder looked at him.

"Oh papa," Li breathed "that was wonderful, will you read to us again, tomorrow?"

"Yes, please do," Mary nodded, enthusiastically. "You read very well, it brought the story alive."

"Well, thank you, both of you," he smiled and reddened, "and yes, I will, as long as I have no other engagements."

"Papa," she batted his arm, "you are silly."

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Silly, was he? He almost skipped down the stairs. Well, if his daughter thought he was silly; in the nicest possible way; he would be silly, for her.

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But his dreams weren't silly.

He was the last to go to bed. Jean went first, feeling she should leave father and son to talk a little more, and she had an early start, as always. He did talk to his father, but more about Li than himself, how was she when she arrived? how did she settle in? Things that any father would want to know. Thomas told him all he could, all about her not liking the monkey toy, but settling with one of Mary's old toys, how Mary had played with her, helped toilet train her, supported her when people said unkind things about her and now - how she was just an everyday citizen of Ballarat.

"That's good," Lucien sighed, "to know she is accepted, and that her close family will always be there for her."

And so, his father had yawned and excused himself to retire for the night.

Left on his own, Lucien sat with his drink and let his eyes roam around the room. The pictures he had watched his mother paint looked down on him with her love in every brush stroke. He supposed he should head to bed, as well, though sleep never came easily for him, or well. He took his glass to the kitchen and rinsed it out before leaving it to drain on the side, then, seeing no sign of his father or Jean's glasses he dried it and took it back to the tray in the studio.

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Jean woke with a start. Someone was calling out, begging for something to stop - surely one of the girls wasn't having a bad dream? She shook her head and blinked, and listened again, no, it was a man's voice. She slipped from under the covers and took her robe from the back of the door, before heading onto the landing. Neither of the girls seemed to have been disturbed, thankfully, so she tiptoed down the stairs and followed the sound. It wasn't coming from Thomas' room but further along, from his son's.

She stood outside the door wondering how to handle this. Nobody had bad nightmares, though the girls had had the odd bad dream after reading something in a book or the newspaper, during the war, but nothing as bad as this, this was pure terror. She knocked - nothing, the noise continued. She knocked again, harder, but whatever he was dreaming about stopped him hearing her. She thought, for a moment, then drew herself up, took a deep breath and pushed the door open just enough to peer in. She had only ever gone into Thomas' room when he was ill, apart from cleaning it and making the bed, putting away the laundry - but never when he was in bed in the normal course of things.

Lucien had thrashed about so much he was wound in the sheet, had practically trapped himself in the bed. The eiderdown was on the floor as was a pillow, and he was still trying to free himself.

"Lucien," she spoke quietly, but with some authority, "Lucien, it's Jean, wake up, please."

He grunted and shouted something unintelligible.

She stepped towards the bed and laid her hand gently on his shoulder. He froze and turned his face towards her, eyes open but unseeing.

"It's alright, Lucien," she whispered, "nothing here will hurt you." She pulled gently at the sheet round him, "let's undo this, shall we."

He wriggled again, less furiously and as she spoke her voice seemed to calm him.

"You have got yourself all tangled up here, haven't you?" she continued, "now, if I pull this bit, ah, yes ..." she kept her eyes on the bedding, rather than the rather handsome, if somewhat dishevelled man in the bed, as she tugged and unwound him.

In his befuddled state he tried to focus on the gentle voice and soft touch of someone he could just about remember - not Mei Lin, the last woman he had touched, but his father's young housekeeper, the practical and very pretty Jean Beazley. The combination of her sweet voice and the gentle breeze through the open window started to bring him round, and back to where he was, in the sanctity of his old room, in his home in Ballarat - not the tin box in the Japanese camp or the unstable bunk in the hut.

"Ugh!", he freed an arm and looked at her, finally able to focus, "Jean, oh hell," he muttered, "I woke you."

"I'm a light sleeper," she stood back.

"Still, I woke you, I'm sorry," he looked saddened, disappointed at his weakness, as he perceived it.

"Don't worry about it," she smiled, "can I get you something, some tea?"

"Don't bother on my behalf," he shrugged, though it would be nice, to share a cup of tea with her.

"I shall have one, now I'm up," she waved her hand over the rumpled bed covers, "and this bed needs re-making."

"I'll do this," he pushed himself up, now free of the tightly wound sheet, "then, yes, if you are having a cuppa ..."

"I shall be in the kitchen," she nodded and left the room, tightening the tie on her robe as she did so.

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Years later she would smile to herself in quiet moments at the start of their story, but now ...

They sat opposite each other in the kitchen, sipping the tea which he had told her he preferred black and without sugar, while he noticed she drank hers quite the opposite.

They studied each other; he saw her tousled curls and sleepy blue-green eyes, she saw unruly blonde hair, temporarily freed from the confines of the product he used to keep it neat, and it needed cutting. His eyes were blue, searching her face for clues as to who she really was.

"Does this happen often?" she ventured.

"I'm afraid so, perhaps I'd better sleep in the out-building, so as not to disturb you," he suggested.

"You will do no such thing," she huffed, "anyway, the motor of the freezer would keep you awake."

"Freezer? That's a bit modern, for dad, isn't it?"

"He had it brought in when Mary was born," she blushed, remembering the kindness of her employer at that low time in her life, "and a washing machine. He has been very kind to me, Lucien, a good friend and generous employer."

"You seem to be good for him, too," he replied, "I remember a rather taciturn father, heavily involved in his work with little time for me, especially after mother passed away."

"Her death hit him harder than he would have anyone believe, I think," she blushed at her forward comment.

"Hm," he mused, "wonder why he didn't wake? How bad is his hearing?"

"It's not good," Jean sighed, "not that he will admit it, or that his patients raise their voices to make themselves heard. They are reluctant to go somewhere else, they know him and he knows them. The police get a bit frustrated when he is dealing with a suspicious death. It's easiest if Matthew Lawson or Bill Hobart are on hand, they know how to handle him without upsetting him."

"Matthew Lawson?" his eyebrows shot up at the mention of his old friend. "He's in the police now?"

"Yes, senior sergeant, though he is taking his Inspector exams, soon."

He whistled and smiled, "must catch up with him."

"He will be here for lunch on Sunday," Jean put her empty cup down, "he often is."

"Right," he pursed his lips.

"Only when he's not on duty," she laughed, "the girls call him Uncle Matthew, he's a good friend, to all of us."

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Lucien spent the next few days getting used to living with people who weren't about to send him out onto a parade ground or into a military hospital. He found his father's barber was also Jean and teased her that she would put the local ones out of business, after she had cut his hair to just longer than regulation length, by just a smidge, she thought, leaving a tiny curl at the back. he approved.

She could sense he needed to be occupied with some physical task so, after she had had just about enough of him watching her in the kitchen she suggested the grass needed cutting and some wood for the fire needed chopping, if he fancied helping her out.

"Right, yes, of course," he stuttered, amazed she would send him out to work on something she probably had a man come in and do.

"Bill Hobart often does it," she put that idea right out of his head, "but ..." she thought the exercise would do him good.

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He came in, red faced and rather sweaty, but strangely relaxed. "It's stacked up with the rest," he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, "I need a shower."

"There's hot water," she quickly turned away. He had stripped down to his singlet and although he had lost quite a lot of weight she could see it wouldn't take long for him to bulk out again, if he kept doing some exercise. There were the remnants of a strong, muscular man there.

"Thanks," he grinned and headed off to clean up.

Jean gripped the counter and took a deep breath. She hadn't felt like this about a man in her entire life. Christopher had never had her heart beat quite this fast, or give her such a strange tug in her belly.

"Pull yourself together, girl," she admonished herself, "you're the hired help, for goodness sake," though 'goodness' had no part in her thoughts.

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"Jean," Thomas hurried, as best he could, "the station have just phoned, I'm needed down at the park."

She turned from her task, writing a shopping list, "shall I drive you?" she smiled, "I can drop you there and go shopping."

While Thomas hated that she drove him so much these days, he had to admit he found driving tiring, it made his leg ache with the arthritis he refused to admit he suffered from.

Lucien heard from his seat in the living room, where he was reading the newspaper. He hadn't ventured into town since arriving back home, a little unsure as to how he would be greeted, though his father's patients had been cordial enough. The Misses Clasby had been delighted to see him and spent an hour taking tea with him, though they were gentle in their questioning of him, and he gave little away.

"Er, Jean, dad," he strolled as nonchalantly as he could into the kitchen, "d'ye mind if I tag along, 'bout time I showed my face in town." He looked a little sheepish.

"Not at all, son," Thomas nodded, "the more the merrier."

Jean grimaced, he was about to go and look at a dead body and he spoke about 'merrier', she worried about him, sometimes.

Lucien had noticed odd things too, overhearing him change Nell Clasby's blood pressure medication for something he thought was not quite right. Perhaps familiarity was not always the right thing.

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"Doc," Matthew pushed his cap back, then stared, "Lucien?" he stepped forward, "bloody hell ... sorry Jean," he gasped, "Lucien Blake, when did you get back into town?"

"A few days ago, Matthew," Lucien extended his hand to his old friend, "how are you?"

"Well, thanks ..."

"You have work to do," Lucien stopped him before they got into a long reminisce, "I believe you are having lunch with us on Sunday?"

Matthew nodded.

"Good, we'll catch up then," he turned and watched his father limp towards the covered body on the path and pulled his brows together. His father was getting too old for this.

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Jean knew that being seen in town with a strange, and handsome, man was likely to cause gossip but she couldn't really tell Lucien to leave her alone. He was her employer's son and if it was his wish that he accompany her on her trip to the butchers, bakers and grocers then she would have to put up with it. The trouble was, Jean didn't 'put up with it', she liked it. She liked that he would carry her basket for her; even if she told him she could manage; that he held doors open for her though she drew the line at taking his arm when he offered it.

"You know how they talk round here, Lucien," she hissed, "it's hard enough being a divorced mother ..." she dropped her shoulders, "sorry, you are very kind, I'm just not used to ..." she waved her hand vaguely in the air. He understood immediately. He was used to treating every woman with respect and it was the first he heard about her being divorced. He was even more intrigued.

As they walked he nodded politely to people he vaguely recognised, shook hands with those who spoke to Jean and she introduced him to and had a few cheeky words for Miss Nell when they found her in the Post Office.

"Good to see you showing your face in town, at last," Nell smiled, "I thought you were going to be holed up at the house forever."

"I had no reason to come into town, Miss Clasby," he laughed, "one should have a reason for doing anything, don't you think?"

"Your reason today?" Nell raised an eyebrow, "surely not just to help Jean with the shopping?"

"Father was called out to the park and Mrs Beazley was driving down, I invited myself to join them," he nodded, giving Jean her more formal title to, hopefully, banish any of the gossip Jean seemed afraid of.

Further conversation was halted by a shout from outside the Post Office and the subsequent wails of a small child. Lucien stepped outside and saw the owner of the cries was a little boy who appeared to have fallen over and cut his chin. His mother was trying to dab the blood up with her handkerchief but he wouldn't hold still and the onlookers, of which there was a small crowd, were doing nothing of any value.

"Do you have a First Aid kit?" he called back into the shop, "some gauze and water please." His voice was commanding and his needs were quickly met. Jean took the supplies to him, where he was now kneeling down on one knee in front of the child.

"Now young man," he held his shoulder, gently, "I'm Dr Lucien Blake, how about you let me have a look at that chin, eh?"

His tone, Jean noted, was calm and gentle, soothing yet firm.

"Would you hold him steady for me?" he looked up at the child's mother, "perhaps sit on this seat here." There was a chair outside the shop, that had a small notice board propped up on it. Jean stepped forward and lifted it off.

The woman sat with her boy facing Lucien, and as he cleaned the wound, the boy's screams turned to intermittent sobs. He covered the wound with a neat dressing and collected the bloody gauze.

"There you go," he smiled and stood up, fishing in his pocket for something. "Ah, here we are," he held up a penny," perhaps a penny sweet will take the sting out of it." He pressed the coin into the boy's hand and tipped his hat to the ladies around him.

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With no more small children requiring his attention and the shopping done, Dr Lucien Blake and his father's housekeeper headed back home, where she would await a call to go and collect Thomas or for him to be brought home by Matthew or Bill.

Jean smiled to herself as she prepared the next meal, perhaps Lucien had just found his place in Ballarat.


	9. Chapter 9

Sunday lunch was lively that weekend. Matthew and Lucien talked about things they had got up to as youngsters, a few things about the war, but nothing that would upset the girls, and had everybody laughing at the things they got up to in school; not just dipping Esther Craven's plaits in ink wells!. Matthew drew him aside when Thomas went to answer the phone, a call from the hospital.

"Your father," he whispered, "you know he's getting on a bit, hearing's going ... it's just that when he deals with an autopsy ... it's not quite what it used to be, if you get my drift."

"Hm," Lucien mused, "are you asking me to take my father's position as police Surgeon, Senior Sergeant?" He quipped.

"Well, perhaps, offer to help out, or to ... I don't know, take one on when he's busy with surgery? Hell, Lucien, our new pathology registrar had to stop him making a complete arse of himself on the last one. She had to offer to take the report up to the office and rewrote it. Old bloke, died of an aneurism but your father said it was a blow to the head, Dr Harvey said she didn't know how he came to that conclusion, there was no outward signs, and the feller died in his bed." Matthew ran his fingers through his hair.

"I don't know, Matthew," Lucien grimaced, "I've seen a lot of death and destruction these past years, I don't know if I can take that on."

"Dr Harvey will be there, she's good, very good, but a bit, oh, a bit solemn, acerbic when somebody makes a stupid suggestion, but she's a bloody good doctor." Matthew was almost pleading.

Lucien sighed, it was true he needed to be occupied, but he had thought just the GP side of his father's practice, he pushed his hands into his pockets.

"Look, give it a go, on the next one," Matthew continued, "see how it is for you ..."

"We'll see."

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Li had another problem with Miss Craven. Jean was worried. Up to now there had been nothing other than Miss Craven pushing the girls towards housewifely subjects and away from such subjects as science and higher mathematics. This frustrated Li and on days when she had to hem a handkerchief or knit a scarf she would arrive home bad tempered and sulky.

"It's not fair, mama," she grumbled, "she didn't used to bother that much, but now she won't let us do anything but the easiest work."

"Hm" Jean placed a drink of juice and a biscuit in front of her, "perhaps your father should have a word. I know he wants you to learn as much as you can, and if you want to be a doctor ... he's out at the moment, helping Uncle Matthew, we'll talk to him later."

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Lucien was disappointed to hear that the science lessons had dropped off in favour of domestic subjects so decided that now he had better intervene in his daughter's education. His first autopsy had gone well, he had found Dr Harvey intelligent and blessed with a dark sense of humour, he wonder why she hadn't shown as much to Matthew, still, they had managed pretty well between them and she even said she would be interested to work with him again. Seeing her at work he was even more determined that should Li still want to be a doctor then he would do all in his power to help her achieve her goal.

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Miss Craven was surprised and not a little annoyed to received a request from Dr Lucien Blake for a meeting with regard to his daughter's progress.

In preparation for this he had set Li a little science test, on things he thought she should have known at her age. There was nothing difficult about it, he didn't ask her to dissect a frog or conduct an autopsy; just identify some parts of a plant, write down what it would need to grow successfully - all of which she knew because Jean had taught her - he gave her some labels and asked her to stick them onto the skeleton in the surgery, she knew some but not all, and asked her some simple questions about the human digestive system.

Lucien was disappointed but didn't let it show, and he didn't blame her for not listening, but when he asked her one or two questions about what she _was_ taught he felt she was being let down.

"All the boys go out for science, papa," she sniffed, "when we do sewing or even cooking."

"I think the boys should learn how to cook," Jean huffed as she walked past the table with the casserole dish in her hands, "and wash and iron."

Lucien looked up and grinned, "well," he sighed, "if they want to join the forces they need to learn how to iron their uniform at the very least."

"So they should," she smiled back.

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Miss Craven sat behind her desk and peered shortsightedly at the man Lucien Blake had become. He had begun to fill out his frame, fed by Jean's good meals and the free access to the biscuit tin, he looked healthier than he had when he came back from the camp but there was a serious look on his face.

"Now, Miss Craven," he wasn't going to challenge her by calling her 'Esther' or, heaven forbid, 'Craven the raven', her nickname at school owing to her thin face, pinched nose and black hair, "about the science lessons ..." he let the implication hang in the air.

"Little girls," she sniffed, "should learn ladylike skills, doctor, not how to cut up bodies."

"I'm not suggesting they should join myself and Dr Harvey in the morgue, Miss Craven, but some basic science such as forces, basic biology and perhaps a little chemistry," he smiled, "some girls, like Li, have ambitions to be doctors or scientists - chemists and the like."

"Well, that's as maybe," she huffed, "I do not teach it."

"I believe the boys learn such skills," he linked his hands together on the desk.

"We separate boys and girls for some subjects," she agreed.

"I should like Li to join the boys for science, please," he squared his shoulders, he had had this discussion with Li and she had agreed that she would like to try joining the boys for science.

"Oh, no, no, no," she tutted, "we can't have that, the other girls won't like her getting special treatment."

"I see, well," he pushed his chair back and stood up, "perhaps I'd better teach her myself, then. What day do you teach sewing and knitting?"

"Er, Tuesday," she stammered.

"Lovely, well, Li won't be in school on Tuesday afternoons, then," he held out his hand, "good day to you." He turned on his heel and left her gaping.

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"Dear Dr Blake,"

the letter started,

"Miss Craven has informed me that you will be taking Li out of school during needlecraft lessons. We are very proud of Li's work in these lessons and fail to understand why you wish to remove her from this subject. I should be very grateful if you would contact myself to discuss the matter.

Yours sincerely

Miss Grace Wood

Headmistress."

"Not surprised, are you?" Jean asked, as she laid the table for dinner.

"No, but I thought Miss Craven might have explained why I wish to take Li out for these sessions," he shrugged, "but she always was a bit of a telltale."

"Miss Wood is very nice, Lucien," she stopped what she was doing, "she has been very supportive of both girls and they have always been happy there. True Li had some trouble with Patrick Tyneman's boy but that was all sorted. His grandfather, Michael, saw to it."

"Well, I better contact her then," he went to make the phone call.

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"Dr Blake," Miss Wood held out her hand, "how nice to meet you."

"Miss Wood," he smiled and lightly shook her hand. He saw a young woman, slight, smartly dressed, dark hair in a neat French pleat, deep brown eyes and a ready smile.

"Please," she indicated the chair opposite her and sat at her desk. "Now, Dr Blake, about Li .."

He held up his hand and smiled his charming, disarming smile, "Miss Wood, I'm sorry, you seem to have the wrong impression as to why I want to take Li out of needlework class."

"Miss Craven was, shall we say, most put out, Li is her best student ..."

"I'm sure she is," he nodded , "her mama has said her needlework is very fine, but, she is missing science lessons for this, and, as she wishes to be a doctor, science is rather important. She is not as able in this subject as I feel she should be."

"Really?" Miss Wood raised her eyebrows, "Miss Craven doesn't seem worried."

"Well, as she doesn't teach science, I don't see how she can judge ..."

"Excuse me?" Miss Wood drew her brows together, had she heard correctly, Miss Craven didn't teach science?

"She told me girls and boys are separated for science and needlework, I assumed she sent the boys to another teacher."

"Since when?" she queried, "we have never split classes by gender."

Lucien failed to see how a head-teacher could miss changes in the teaching of classes.

"I'm sorry, doctor," she shook her head, "I've had some time away from school, a bereavement, Miss Craven was in charge in my absence. Poor Li, she is a bright child, you should be proud of her - leave it with me, I shall speak to Miss Craven and see that science lessons are reinstated for all children."

"Thank you, Miss Wood," he stood and smiled, extending his hand, "I'm sorry to hear of your sadness ..." he didn't add how angry he was at Esther Craven's treatment of not only his daughter, but those other girls in her class that were being under-educated.

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The 'discussion' between Miss Wood and Miss Craven was heard by most of the school, although it was held behind closed doors.

Miss Wood was polite and kind, asked if Miss Craven was under some strain, or was she having difficulties at home? that she had to ask another teacher to take the science classes.

"Young ladies," Miss Craven huffed, "should not have ambitions towards scientific careers, Miss Wood. They should be looking to nurture the next generation, marry and keep a clean and tidy home."

"That's a somewhat Victorian attitude, Esther, dear," Miss Wood sighed, "we have moved on since then. In fact my own doctor is a woman That aside, we are not here to push children in one direction because of their gender. If you feel unable to teach science I shall ask Mr Russell to take the class and perhaps you can take his class for ... " she checked the timetable, "for art, as that is the subject on Tuesday afternoon."

Esther Craven did not think art was a worthy subject to teach, either, but she could see that Miss Wood had made her mind up. She stuck out her chin and strode out of the office, wondering who she could get on her side. Bloody Lucien Blake sticking his nose in where it wasn't wanted.

Aside from her old fashioned ideas about the teaching of girls, which had been hidden because Miss Wood ran a well organised school and insisted all children had the opportunity to learn a wide range of subjects, Miss Craven harboured deep and unpleasant feelings about Li Blake. Being left in charge of the school, which she felt was her right, she had been able to exact some of her revenge on the man who had scorned her when she was a teenager, by manipulating the timetable to keep Li from becoming the person she was destined to be. She had indicated, to certain members of the teaching staff that she had information on them that would see them sacked from their positions should they decide to let the Headmistress know of the changes she had initiated.

It was only the death of her father, in Brisbane, that had had Miss Wood take longer leave than she would have thought of, had he lived closer. Still, that was not the point. She had trusted Miss Craven to keep the school running while she was away as she herself would run it, and she had heard nothing to concern her when she returned, though she had only been back in post a week.

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The following Tuesday, Li asked if Lucien would collect her from school. Miss Craven had been dismissive of all the girl had written or worked on since the science lessons had been reinstated, she had held her up to ridicule when she made a mistake in her spelling, blaming it on her parentage. Li didn't want to say anything to her father, thinking it would only make things worse than they already were. She also insisted none of her friends said anything either and she kept up a cheerful exterior while being hurt inside.

"I would be delighted to walk you home, sweetheart," he smiled, "I shall be at the school gates at four o'clock."

"Thank you, papa," she hugged him, "some of my friends are really pleased we have the science lessons back, and Mr Russell to teach it."

Jean made a mental note to ensure he was on time, she had never asked to be collected since she had been deemed old enough to walk home by herself, or with a group of friends. She had an idea there was more to it, than her friends wanting to thank him in person.

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Lucien exchanged pleasantries with some of the parents waiting to collect their children, some were his father's patients and wanted to know if he would be taking over the practice?

"I'm not sure," he smiled, "it does depend on what he wants, don't you think?" He doffed his hat.

The children started drifting out, running over to their parents chattering and laughing. Lucien waited patiently until one little girl came running over.

"Dr Blake," she gasped, trying to get her breath, "Li is being kept back by Miss Craven."

"Why?"

"I think it's because Li told her she had made a mistake in her lesson," the girl replied, "she was very polite, not in the least rude, but she labelled the map wrong, apparently, with Singapore."

"Thank you ..?"

"Alice," she smiled, "you're welcome, Li's my friend."

Lucien strode purposefully across the playground thinking Li had a good friend in Alice.

Li was standing in the classroom as Miss Craven told her what she thought about little girls who thought they knew more than their teachers and contradicted them.

"Uppity, that what you are, miss," she hissed, "just like your father."

"But, Miss Craven," Li stuttered, "that's Kuala Lumpur," Li persisted, "Singapore is below it."

"That's quite enough from you," she grabbed her hand, holding it palm up and raised her other hand in which she held a cane. She brought it down on the small hand leaving a welt across the palm. Li bit her bottom lip and refused to cry. Miss Craven brought the cane up again and prepared to strike again.

Part of Lucien froze at the sight as he pushed the door silently open. Memories flooded back, but there was part of him that stayed in the present - and at the present his daughter, who he had tried his best to protect, was being beaten, in a similar way to himself. He reached out and grabbed the hand holding the cane.

"Nobody beats my daughter, Esther," he grunted, "nobody." He bent the cane across his knee until it snapped.

"Papa," Li wrapped her arms round him, "I only told her she had made a mistake, on the map. I didn't mean to be rude."

"Dr Blake," Miss Wood had been alerted by Alice that he was in the building and that Miss Craven was using the cane on Li, "oh, my goodness, Miss Craven ..."

"She ...she ..." Esther stuttered.

"Come now, Miss Craven," Miss Wood reached for her elbow, "let's go and have a cuppa and talk about this, Dr Blake," she turned to the shaking father, "perhaps you would like to take Li home."

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He didn't know how he made it home, safely, driving Li back to the sanctuary of Mycroft Avenue. He took her into the surgery to examine her hand and give any treatment she may need. The welt across her palm was red, angry looking, but the skin wasn't broken.

"Ice, I think darling child," he put his arm round her and drew her into a warm hug, "I don't know what she was thinking," he shook his head sadly, "to cane you over that."

"I'm sorry, papa," she sniffed, finally allowing the tears to fall, "she got worse after you came home. I was so happy and she was so mean."

"You should have said something," he sat down and pulled her onto his knee, "not let her upset you."

"But, papa," she snuggled into his shoulder, "you had just come back from a prisoner of war camp. I know it was dreadful, I heard mama and gran'papa talk about it."

He pulled back and looked at her.

"Oh, it's alright," she smiled, "they didn't tell me, I ... er ... I listened one night, when I should have been in bed. Sorry," she whispered and hung her head in shame.

"I suppose you needed to know," Lucien sighed, "but, no matter. You know, I made it, and though sometimes I might be a bit glum, I'm so very glad to be home, Li."

"Mama said my mother, your wife, died helping other people, is that right?"

"She was working in the hospital when she died," he sighed, "along with some other people."

"So she was doing something good, not poorly?"

"Yes love."

They sat for a while, even though Li really did want to go and get the ice for her hand, but it was comfortable on his knee, in his arms. He wondered how much she remembered of Mei Lin, this was the first time she had mentioned her. Sitting reading to her at night, he had realised how she had known him, that day he had arrived home. The photograph on the chest of drawers in the bedroom a constant reminder of her parents so far away.

"I don't remember her, really," she hummed, finally, "I vaguely remember someone who looked after me, but not her."

"You had a nanny," Lucien stroked her hair, "your mother was ... " what to say, that Mei Lin only had her because it was expected, that she didn't like babies?

"Probably very busy," Li nodded, and Lucien agreed; it was best she thought that rather than the truth, that she was 'busy' partying or sleeping with his best friend. He took a deep breath - that was the past, this was the present and his future was here, in Ballarat, with his daughter, his father and the little family that had grown out of compassion and need.

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Miss Wood didn't quite know what to do with Esther Craven. She could sack her, but felt that was a bit extreme, the cane was used as punishment, though she herself had never resorted to it. She could perhaps offer her some leave on medical grounds, then let her return and teach any class that didn't have Li Blake in it, for she felt that was where the trouble lay.

When she had taken her away from Lucien and set her down in the office with a cup of tea she had muttered about Lucien Blake and his high handedness.

"I take it, Esther," she spoke softly, "you knew Dr Blake when he was young?"

Miss Craven just huffed.

"You seem to bear him a grudge, a very old one," she persisted, "is that wise, to let it eat you up like that. Wouldn't it be better to let bygones be bygones, or, if you can't do that, ignore him?"

Esther Craven could not admit that, when she was a teenager, she had fallen head over heels in love with the handsome, blonde, doctor's son but he had spurned her, laughed with his friends at her simpering and fluttering eyelashes then taken Monica Parker out and other girls in town. She was convinced that if she had shown herself willing to warm his bed he would have taken more notice of her, but no, her church, her strict parents would have been horrified at such behaviour. He was probably sleeping with the housekeeper - everyone knew she had had to get married, then divorced her feckless husband. She could never believe that Lucien Blake was not interested in her, that she was not 'his type'.

Esther had never understood how Jean had been able to shake off the shame of becoming pregnant outside marriage, and was a respected member of the community. She didn't know the whole story, or even as much as most, but to her, Jean was little more than a harlot. They had met rarely, once in school when they had discussed Li's progress and occasionally in passing.

Jean, herself, found her rather hard, a little rude looking down her nose at her, but she decided it wasn't worth making a fuss about; that she probably thought working mothers and housekeepers were beneath her. Every other teacher nodded and smiled and greeted her pleasantly, and, as she noted to Thomas, one day, "not everybody is going to be your friend."

In the end, Miss Wood persuaded Miss Craven to take a leave of absence, on health grounds, and to return to another class that would not be such hard work. In truth, she didn't know which class to put her in. The little ones would be terrified of her and the older ones would challenge her. Perhaps she would decide teaching was no longer for her - one could only hope.

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The experience of seeing his daughter with the cane raised above her hand had upset Lucien more than he realised. The nightmares that still occurred became more real and he started to wake Jean more often than he had of late. Now the cries were of pain and it was during one of his worst moments, that Jean saw some of the marks on his back.

He had called out and out of habit Jean went to him. It was a warm night and he had not put on a pyjama top and thrown most of his bedcovers off the bed, before he got in. In the light from the moon, streaming between the curtains, she saw him curled up on the bed flinching at the sting of the lash that landed on his back in his subconscious.

She stepped forward, trying to avoid looking at his back, but not out of horror or disgust, more that she didn't want him to be embarrassed that she had seen. Perhaps this was why the most she had seen him down to was his singlet when he chopped wood or cut the grass.

"Lucien," she whispered, "Lucien, it's Jean, everything's alright."

"Nngh," he huffed, "ugh!"

She sat gently on the edge of the bed, "come on, Lucien," she reached for his right hand that was closest to her, "come with me," she closed her fingers round his, "let's have some tea." His fingers instinctively grabbed onto hers, so tight it made her wince but she didn't pull away, instead she reached over with her other hand and pushed the curls off his forehead. She felt him start to relax and stir from his tortured slumber.

"Jean," he swallowed, "oh, Jean, I'm sorry," he sniffed and tried to push himself into a sitting position, "I've hurt your hand." He looked down and released the fingers.

"It's fine, Lucien, really," she pulled her hands in to her lap.

"I'll see you in the kitchen, tea?" she pushed herself off the bed and stepped back.

"Er, yes," he looked down, realising he was on show, to her, "thank you."

She left the room flexing her sore fingers and musing on what she had seen. The dream, or nightmare, he had had must have been triggered by Miss Craven's treatment of Li. It must have brought back memories of beatings he had endured, if the scars she could just see in the moonlight, were anything to go by.

As she made the tea she reflected that his nightmares had become less severe and much easier to stop. Sometimes just her voice, telling him he was safe, was enough, and she would go back to her bed without making the tea. This one needed tea and either silence or her ear, he would take the lead on this.

He appeared as she was pouring the boiling water onto the leaves in the pot. He was ashamed, held his robe, fine oriental silk, navy blue with exotic birds and flowers embroidered on it, tightly round him, as if he could erase the memory of what she had seen.

He sat in his customary seat and waited while she poured his tea and added milk and sugar to her own. He could see red marks where he had held her hands and the guilt resurfaced.

"I'm so very sorry Jean," he sniffed, "your hand ..."

"... is fine," she reached over instinctively to soothe him and he touched the fingers. As she made to draw them away he lifted her hand and lightly kissed it.

She ducked her head and blushed furiously.

She pulled her hand back and attempted to recover her composure. She couldn't ask about the marks on his skin, he would be mortified, though he surely knew she had seen more than he wanted her to. They sat in silence and drank their tea. Lucien watched her from under his eyelids and once again mused on the generosity and gentleness of this woman before him. He was drawn to her more and more, in spite of her holding back, always aware of her position in the household. Yet he knew she was more than she thought - more than just the housekeeper, she ran the house and surgery, she kept everything as it should be, in its place and quite proper. He would one day find out who she really was, apart from a wronged wife, divorced and forced to earn a living for her and her child; though, he wondered, surely now she was a widow?

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Thomas felt as if a burden had been lifted from him, when Lucien did his first autopsy for the police. He found them quite tiring, these days, saddening and confusing. He had always hoped that he would be able to retire when his son came home, if he came home, and now he had, so perhaps ...

He sat up in bed, another bout of indigestion. Jean was up, he could hear muffled sounds as the girls shrieked at something someone had said, probably Lucien. He should get up and see if a cup of tea would help if not, some milk of magnesia. Wrapping his robe around him, though the morning was warm, he shuffled through the living room.

Jean looked up across the table and smiled as she saw him, then her face dropped. His face fell and he was grimacing, clutching his chest.

"Thomas!"

Lucien looked round. He jumped up and caught his father as he fell to the floor.

"Jean, an ambulance!" He lay Thomas on the floor and took his pulse. Weak and ragged - possibly a heart attack.

Everything happened at lightning speed, it seemed to all in the house. Lucien went with his father and said he would ring as soon as he had any news.

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Thomas woke to soft light, muted voices, a drip in his arm but more importantly his son's hand in his.

"Well, father," Lucien smiled, "you gave us quite a fright."

"Lucien ..."

"Shh ..." he patted his shoulder, "you have had a heart attack, not a big one, but big enough and you need to rest."

"The girls? Jean?"

"Are fine, shocked but fine. I shall ring again, shortly, and let them know you have come round." Lucien squeezed his hand, "now I know you don't like being a patient, so if you are a good one, and behave yourself, I shall arrange for you to come home to be nursed. Jean is probably stricter than any of the sisters here, anyway."

Thomas thought back to the time he had had the flu and smiled weakly, nodding in agreement.

"If you are in agreement," Lucien continued, "I shall take over the practice and police duties, until you are fit to return to it, or not, as the case maybe."

"Not the police duties, son," he sighed, "I really don't think I want to do those anymore, you do them, Matthew says you do a good job, maybe a little too thorough, doing your own investigations."

Lucien stared at him, true he had gone a little further than just pronouncing the cause of death ... and he had actually enjoyed it, 'making a difference', he called it.

"We'll see."

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With Thomas in hospital Lucien took over the surgery and the police surgeon duties. Jean showed him how things ran, how she would take the receipts each night and send out bills, letters and do the books. She would arrange the appointments, rearranged them if he was called out, greet the patients and see them out. File the notes at the end of each surgery and set them out at the beginning. All of which he knew, he had watched her over the weeks, quietly and efficiently moving around the house, leaving behind her a wake of calm.

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They sat, one evening discussing Thomas' return from the hospital. Lucien had confided in Jean that the end of the week was a possibility, but ...

"The stairs, Jean," he swirled a whisky round the crystal glass, "I'm worried they may be a bit of a strain for him, and I don't want you dealing with bottles and bedpans."

"I wondered the same," she agreed, "he was beginning to find them hard going, I noticed."

"Hm, any ideas?"

"Well," she tipped her head, sipped her sherry and thought, "there is that little dressing room beside his bedroom, a small bathroom, perhaps."

"Could it be done?"

"Probably, but I don't know what it would cost."

"Can you see?" he asked, "you know the trades-people better than me, get a couple of quotes."

"If you think it can be afforded," she knew what the finances were, what was in the surgery account, what was in her own account and Thomas' but his ... she supposed the army were still paying him.

Lucien knew he had enough in his account, he had barely spent anything above a couple of new suits, shirts and undergarments that he had purchased since he had returned home. The clothes he had arrived with had been washed or discarded depending on Jean's opinion as to whether they were reparable, his trunk had arrived and any clothes in that had been cleaned and put away - they were worn and laundered as part of his regular wardrobe.

"I'm sure it can be," he nodded, "a loo, washbasin and shower, I think."

"What about a bath?"

"Trouble is, Jean, he might become too infirm to get out of a bath," he leant forward and she could see him thinking through the care his father would need, "a stool, in the shower would be easier for him. He would be embarrassed if he had to call you to help him, if I'm not around."

"I see," she drew her brows together as she visualised the room, "linoleum for the floor, then, carpet would get soaked and start to smell."

"Excellent," he smiled, "I can see father is in the most capable of hands."

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It was a tight schedule, to get a shower room fitted in time for Thomas returning, but they managed it, by the skin of their teeth. Lucien found her, the night before, adding the final touches of towels, toiletries and Thomas' shaving equipment to the shelves and sill. She had found a chair he could sit in to dry himself and the stool was discreetly put in the corner of the shower cubicle. They had both visited the elder doctor in hospital to tell him of the changes and has he had started to protest that he didn't need mollycoddling Jean had frowned and he had fallen silent. Lucien had found it hard not to laugh at the way she could wind his father round her little finger, when he knew she was right. The protest was a token one, Thomas knew, deep down, they were right, but would only admit it to himself.

"Jean," he put his hands on her shoulders, "it looks lovely, he has everything?"

Lucien had never touched her like that and she didn't know whether she should like it, or welcome it, but she had noticed his reticence had become less over the months, and his naturally tactile nature had come to the fore, especially after the night he had kissed her fingers. But this affectionate squeeze was more than the usual light tap to her arm, or ushering her forward with his hand in her lower back.

"I can't think of anything else he had in the upstairs bathroom, so, yes," she nodded but didn't turn, her cheeks were burning.

The kiss to the top of her head had her heart pounding and she struggled to control her breathing. Lucien knew precisely what he was doing to her and one day he was determined she would fill his arms, but for now he would be content with her allowing the contact they had and love her from afar. For he was sure it was love, not infatuation, not lust - though he had thought her pretty when he first met her, it was more than her looks that drew him to her, it was who she was - kind, generous, practical, teasing and strong, unafraid of the things that life threw at her, a core of steel. The complete opposite of Mei Lin.


	10. Chapter 10

A somewhat domestic chapter.

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It was decided that Thomas would be released from the hospital while the girls were at school. It would be easier than having them fussing about him, dancing round him and hugging him. He was frail, tired easily and, in spite of his opinion of the regime put in place for him, stubborn. He knew perfectly well what he should and shouldn't do, but, as Jean said, "he's a doctor, and the rules don't apply to him."

He insisted on stepping back into the house unaided, apart from his usual walking stick, waving away Jean's hand and Lucien's arm. Jean just shrugged and headed for the kitchen to make him a cup of tea. He had complained that the drink he was given in hospital was too weak to crawl out of the pot and he liked his tea with a bit of, in his words, 'life in it', so she set about laying a tray for the three of them

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Lucien took the small valise that held his pyjamas and robe and the toiletries that he had used in hospital into the bedroom, and pushed the door to the new bathroom open so he could see inside. Behind him his father looked round the house and smiled at the familiarity and warmth he felt there. He had so missed the smell of polish and Jean's cooking, the dark wood and the pictures on the walls. He entered his room and stopped. The bed was made up with clean linen and a bright new cover, there was a small vase of garden flowers on the dresser and an envelope propped up in front of it. He smiled at Mary's familiar handwriting on the front but didn't immediately go to open it.

Lucien helped him out of his coat and hung it in the wardrobe and smiled at him. The little time he had spent in the house, since returning from the camp had made him see his father for who he was. Loving, generous, compassionate and lost; lost when Genevieve died so suddenly, lost in his grief and unable to show his son just how much he loved him. Jean had brought the generous and loving man to the fore, cared for him when he had shown her the compassion she needed, and in return he had probably supported her through the divorce, and treated her more like a daughter than a housekeeper.

"So, son," Thomas' voice broke through his musings, "this bathroom you insist I need ..."

"Through here, father," he waved towards what had been the dressing room, "Jean's idea."

"Don't go blaming her," Thomas grumbled good naturedly, "you had a hand in it too."

"Well, maybe I did, but it's for your comfort," he grinned, "now, see what you think."

Thomas poked his head round the door and gasped, he had no idea how such a little room could be made to appear so spacious and bright. Whoever had actually done the work must have worked day and night, they had even managed to cut a small window in the wall, letting in natural light over the sink.

"I ... I ..." he swallowed, tears sprang to his eyes, "well ..." he stepped in and surveyed the shower cubicle with its discreet stool set to one side, the shelves with the toiletries arrayed on them, the towels hanging on a radiator and the toilet set in the corner. The linoleum on the floor was a soft blue, speckled with darker shapes, the curtains matched the mats also in blue, and the whole was tiled in white square tiles with the occasional one having a nautical themed picture, such as a sailing yacht or a lifebelt, painted on them. He studied the one of the yacht and saw in the corner the initials 'MB' for Mary.

"This ..." he pointed at the picture.

"Mary, Li made the curtains and covered the chair," Lucien smiled, "they wanted to be part of it."

"It's truly remarkable," Thomas finally managed to get out, "I always thought it was a rather poky little space, it seems so much bigger."

"So, a good idea, then?" Lucien raised an eyebrow.

"Alright," Thomas laughed, "yes, it is a good idea, thank you, son."

"You must thank Jean, too," he stood aside and let his father pass back out into the bedroom, "tea, in the living room."

"I'll be right there," Thomas smiled and started to take off his jacket, "just got to get out of this and into something more .. relaxed."

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Jean looked up as Lucien entered the living room, a question on her face.

"He likes it, very much," he sat in one of the chairs opposite the couch, "I think he's a bit overwhelmed," he added in a whisper.

She relaxed. "It's a lot to take in, I suppose," she smiled, "is he coming through?"

"Just changing out of his jacket, and probably reading the card from the girls."

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With the card set on his bedside cabinet and his resolve back in place, Thomas took up his stick and headed for a much needed cup of decent tea and, with a bit of luck, some of Jean's homemade shortbread. He had done a lot of thinking while in his hospital bed and he needed to talk to his son.

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He sipped the tea, nibbled the shortbread and sighed, "that's better." He looked at the other two in the room and addressed Jean, "thank you, Jean," he shifted to get more comfortable, "I know the design, the colours are your idea, it's really lovely; quite remarkable in fact."

"We just want you to be comfortable, not to, oh," she blushed slightly, "not to strain yourself ..." she dropped her shoulders when he smiled.

"I understand," he took another sip of the tea, "and I am grateful, really. Nobody could have as caring a family as I have, with you ... all of you."

"Thomas ..."

"Dad ..."

Stop," Thomas held his hand up, "before the girls get in, I need to speak, to both of you."

Jean and Lucien both turned and looked at him and then at each other, what could he have to say to both of them. Jean was slightly embarrassed, she wasn't his kin, just his housekeeper ... and his friend.

"The thing is, Lucien," he sighed, "while I was in hospital I had time to think, a lot of time, and this is what I came to believe - you, son, are a better doctor than I am, you know more, you have seen more, more up to date procedures ... and you are younger. I want you to take over the practice and the police surgeon duties, all of it."

"Dad," Lucien gasped, "I only did it while you were indisposed."

"Lucien you are a doctor, a good doctor," Thomas huffed, "you know fine well I am not well enough, certainly not at the present time, so, I would like you to take over. Jean will help you, I expect she has been doing ... and Dr Harvey popped by to see me, she doesn't seem to mind working with you."

"That's very kind of her," Lucien looked at him, then over at Jean, "but what does Matthew say, and his boss, do they agree?"

"Matthew is quite happy, and as long as you don't overstep the mark, Inspector Ashby will be too."

"Well, I'll see how it goes," Lucien sighed, in the back of his mind hoping it would go well because he had already begun to formulate the letter to leave the army. "Are you happy to carry on with the way we have been working, Jean?" he turned to her, "you have been doing an awful lot."

"No more than usual, really," she smiled, "we'll sort it out, I'm just glad you are home, Thomas, and on the road to recovery."

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They settled into a routine. Nobody was surprised to have Dr Lucien Blake see them in surgery, everybody asked after his father, and Thomas would occasionally wander into the waiting room to pass the time of day with some of his older patients, like the Clasby ladies. Sometimes they would join him for tea in the living room or in the garden. He rose later and retired earlier but in between times his recovery continued at a pace his son considered acceptable. Lucien had spoken about his diet, to Jean, and she had altered some of her recipes to contain less fat and sugar but not less taste.

"It will do all of us good, anyway," he smiled, "I noticed my trouser waistbands were becoming a little tight."

"Good," she laughed, "you needed to put some weight on, perhaps fewer trips to the biscuit tin, doctor," she teased, "from now on."

"It was your idea," he nudged her with his shoulder as they washed up together one evening.

"That was then," she pushed back.

Mary and Li watched them from the corner of the living room where they were finishing off some homework and smiled to each other.

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"It would be nice," Mary whispered to her sister, that night in bed, "don't you think?"

"You would have a father and mama would really be my mother," Li agreed, "though, as I have never really known any other ..."

"You wouldn't mind?" Mary whispered.

"No, I've shared your mama, I'm happy to share papa, if that's what you want."

Mary smiled and wriggled down under the covers.

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Jean lay in her bed and thought about how the atmosphere in the house had changed. The girls were still their usual cheerful selves, excited about Christmas and glad to have gran'pa home but they did a fair amount of whispering behind their hands. She sighed, they were probably thinking of the gifts they would make, or buy, for herself, Thomas and Lucien. That aside, and Lucien's now rare nightmares, things were changing. Lucien was far less formal than his father had even been, much more tactile with his light touches to her arm, the kiss to the top of her head that day that still made her blush when she thought about it, his nudging her with his shoulder ... she felt, that whatever happened, she would always have a home here.

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Lucien stared at the ceiling, and wondered ... wondered why he had slipped so easily into life in his father's house, his father's practice was now his. The day Thomas had told him he wanted him to take over he had had a private discussion with him in the study and formally handed it over to him.

"I always hoped, son," he smiled, "that you would come home and take it on. I will always regret the years I missed, of your growing up, but I am so proud of the man you have become. Be gentle with Jean, she is the daughter I never had. Listen to her, she knows more about the town than Matthew or Ashby will ever do, she is well respected and cleverer than she thinks."

"Well, Dad," Lucien hummed, "I suppose it is right, that I come back, for good. I don't want to go back to the army, I have written the letter resigning my commission it just needs posting. I want to make my life here, watch my daughter grow up, like you I have missed so much of her growing into this lovely girl and I know it is due to you and Jean."

He would send the letter the next day and start his life properly. Working with Jean these past weeks had been interesting, she had shown him that she was insightful over his cases, when he got over the shock of her taking an interest in a murder he had done the autopsy on. Matthew had, he found, a glare he used when he was getting in too deep, but he had listened to his theories and ultimately the case had been solved and the murderer brought to book. Jean hadn't been too impressed when he arrived home, having missed dinner, a little the worse for drink, He, Matthew and Dr Harvey had headed to the club for an end of case whisky that turned into a rather long session, though Dr Harvey had been the sensible one, remained sober, and driven them both to their homes. He smiled at the scolding Jean had given him and the lack of sympathy at the headache he had had in the morning. It had been some time since he had drunk so much, he was out of practise he thought, though perhaps he had better be careful the next time he went out with Matthew - he didn't fancy the scolding again. He still felt he knew so little about her and his naturally curious nature pushed him to find out more but gently, she was obviously a deeply private person, so he would content himself with watching her and picking up any hints she dropped, teasing her and enjoying his nightly drink with her in the studio.

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Matthew stopped him at the door to the morgue. He had called Lucien out in the early evening to do an autopsy, with Dr Harvey, on an elderly woman found dead in her garden.

"It's probably natural causes," he shrugged, "but I think I ought to warn you, the deceased is Jean's mother."

"Oh, I see," he hummed, "have you told Jean?"

"They were estranged, really," Matthew shoved his hands in his pockets, "Jean will explain. Her father wasn't about, which is strange." He scratched his head. Mr Randall had tried to keep in touch with Jean, though his wife tried to keep them apart. It was he that sent a Christmas card to his daughter and grand-daughter, a birthday card to Mary, and even though she only saw him occasionally she appreciated the thought, the older she got.

"Right, so no talking to Jean, then?"

"Not just yet," Matthew sighed, "maybe when you have ascertained the manner of her passing?"

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Jean went to bed before Lucien arrived home. He planned it that way knowing she would ask who the body was, and offer suggestions as to why, but as it happened Matthew was right, Mrs Randall had had a massive stroke and passed, "probably before she hit the ground", Lucien sighed, signing off the death certificate. "Now the whereabouts of her father?"

"That's the odd thing," he leant back in his chair in the station office, "all his things have gone, there is no indication he ever lived there, and the neighbours just said they hadn't seen him for a while."

"Any rows?"

"Not according to them," Matthew leant forward, "just one day he was there and the next he wasn't. She carried on tending the farm, a new patch was -ploughed ..." Matthew didn't like where his thoughts were heading.

"Would you like some company?" Lucien raised his eyebrows, his thoughts heading in the same, general direction.; but - why was Jean estranged from her mother?

"Bloody hell, Blake!" he grunted, "you don't think ...?

"Stranger things have happened."

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Lucien was up and out before Jean the next morning. It had been too dark to start digging the newly ploughed patch the previous night, though the biggest question was, why plough now, it was too late for planting?

In the daylight the doctor and the policeman could see the farm had not been going well, much of the land was untended and growing weeds, but the ploughed patch ...

"What a way to spend my day off," Matthew huffed, shedding a lightweight jacket, "digging up a field ..."

"Quite," Lucien agreed, he had dressed in his old combat trousers and green shirt, "but we can't tell Jean anything until we have tried out this theory. Though if we are right, god knows what we tell her."

"The truth," Matthew stabbed a spade into the earth, "always with Jean it's best to be up-front."

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"Sorry, Jean," the note propped up on the kitchen table said, "had to rush off, should be home for dinner, Lucien."

She smiled, she had a feeling things would be different with Lucien and perhaps this was the start of the changes. He was occasionally late for dinner, at least this time he had warned her.

The girls went to school and Thomas pottered around, going through the records by the radiogram. He played them occasionally but had been threatening to sort them out for some time now.

"Some of them are so old they are more scratch than music," he sighed, "I shall throw them out, I think. I might look at replacing them with something new."

By 'new' Jean knew he meant newer recordings of his favourite melodies, not 'new' as in more modern music.

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Drs Harvey and Blake surveyed the cadaver on the morgue table. Still covered in the mud from the field where Matthew and Lucien had found him, he cut a pathetic and rather sad figure.

"Not long gone," Lucien sighed, "d'you think?"

"Matter of a month, I should estimate," she looked closely at the head. "No apparent head injury, but after a wash it will be better to see."

They undressed him from his formal 'Sunday' suit, washed the dirt off him and placed folded sheets over him to preserve his modesty. They walked round the table, stopping periodically to look more closely at him before deciding to open him up and see if there was any indication of the cause of his demise.

As they drew the scalpel down the centre of the torso clots of blood became apparent.

"Internal bleeding but how?" Lucien peeled back the skin, carefully, "there are no external bruises or marks."

Dr Harvey started to clean out the abdominal cavity clearing it so they had a better view of the organs and blood vessels. She had a hunch, but first she had to find the aorta under all the detritus.

"Aha," she tried not to sound too triumphant, "ruptured aorta, poor man, he didn't stand a chance."

"So why bury him in the field, and not register the death?" Lucien slumped onto a stool.

"So Jean wouldn't find out," Matthew stepped into the room just as Lucien asked the question. "Old man Randall tried so hard to reconcile them, Jean and her mother, but she stubbornly refused to have anything to do with her daughter."

"I suppose I should speak to Jean," Lucien sighed, "at least he would have known nothing about it."

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Lucien wasn't sure how he was going to tell her, but it would have to be quietly and in private. So, he headed back to the house around lunch time. There would be no girls to distract her just him and his father, perhaps it would give her a little time to start the grieving process.

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Jean looked up from folding some laundry and smiled as he entered the kitchen.

"Hello, stranger," she hummed, "hungry?"

"Not just yet, Jean," he sighed, "tea?"

Not as subtle as he wanted to be, but he had never had to do this face to face, only in a letter.

"Er, yes, alright," she drew her brows in, "is something wrong?"

Lucien didn't answer, he just continued setting a tray, boiling the kettle and warming the pot, filling a little jug with milk and placing everything, plus the sugar bowl on the tray, before carrying it into the living room.

"Sit down, please," he nodded to a place on the couch, next to him, "sugar?"

"Please," she watched him, so serious and so sad.

"Jean ..."

"What is this case about, Lucien, why the tea?"

"The body I had to autopsy, the other day ... it was, er," he took a deep breath, "it was your mother."

In spite of everything Jean still had some love for her mother, she had taught her all she needed to know to become the housekeeper to Thomas, but she also hurt that she couldn't put her transgression aside and come to love Mary.

"Oh," she stared into her teacup, "how?"

"Massive stroke," he watched her, "she would have know very little, dead before she hit the ground."

"Dad?"

"Ah, yes, well .." he put his cup down, "I don't know how to tell you, but ..."

"Lucien," tears sprang to her eyes, she had tried to ring her father over the past few months but every time he mother heard her voice over the phone she slammed the receiver down. She had tried passing but each time her mother had told her to get off the property.

"It looks like your father had an aortic aneurysm, it took him, he would have known nothing," Lucien took the rattling cup and saucer off her, "but we think your mother buried him on the farm and failed to notify the authorities, so you wouldn't find out. Matthew said you were estranged."

Her trembling fingers went to her lips as she tried to fight the urge to cry.

"It's my fault," she whispered, "if only ..."

"It's not your fault, Jean," he touched her shoulder fighting his own urge to take her in his arms and hold her while she cried

"You don't know that, how could you?" she sniffed, trying not to be short with him, unless she told him the whole story he would never understand, but what would he think of her, when she did?

"Tell me," he murmured, "tell me why she did this, why you were estranged."

She stared at her intertwined fingers in her lap, it wasn't a secret but it wasn't something she shouted about either.

"Mary," she swallowed, "Mary was conceived out of wedlock. Christopher, he was good looking, persuasive, your father described it as emotional blackmail, if I loved him, he said, I would let him ... "

As she told him the whole sorry tale, how she had been foolish and weak, how his father had found out, always been around when she needed him, of the offer made on her wedding day, all of it came flooding out and as it did she found herself sobbing in his arms taking solace in his unspoken gentleness, finding relief in the embrace she had never thought to find again, but an embrace she may never experience again for Lucien was her employer, not someone she should consider a potential suitor.

He let her cry, stroked her back and her head, and understood to a greater extent. The love and support she had craved from her parents had not come, just as the love he had needed from his father, when his mother passed away had not been forthcoming. He would not weep with her, not this time, this time he had to give her the support she needed, but he was even more amazed that his father had done what her own could not do - he had been there when she needed him, with his guidance and his lack of judgement.

Jean's tears began to slow and she pushed herself away from the comfort of his arms.

"I'm sorry," she sniffed as she took the handkerchief he offered, the one she made sure he had in his pocket every morning.

"For what?" he didn't fully release her, but looked down at his jacket, now streaked with her tears and the mucus from her nose, the makeup that has transferred to his suit, "the cleaners will soon sort this out," he smiled gently.

"I er," she wiped her face, she must look a sight, she thought, "perhaps I'd better wash my face, then lunch." She drew herself up.

"You don't have to," he squeezed her shoulder, "I can ... a sandwich," he shrugged, "I can do that."

"It's my place," she murmured.

"No, well, that is, you don't have to hide how you feel, Jean, take some time, if it helps."

His kindness was almost as bad as hearing the news, again. She bit her lip and stood up, "thank you, doctor," she nodded, "for being so understanding."

"Any time, Mrs Beazley," he watched her head to the stairs, wondering if he had overstepped the mark. A polite cough broke his thoughts.

"Lucien?"

"Oh, dad," he turned and stood, "I have just autopsied Jean's mother, and her father. It appears Mrs Randall buried her husband on the farm after he died of an aneurysm, aortic, and failed to tell anyone ..."

"She was a hard woman," Thomas huffed, "he tried to help, but she felt ..." he looked to see if Jean was within earshot, "that Jean let her down. Which she didn't in any way shape or form. The boy was manipulative, had his way with quite a few local girls ... did she tell you he suggested Matthew or Bill could be Mary's father, all because she was friends with them? And that's all it was, friendship."

"No she didn't," Lucien looked angry, "I knew him, as you recall, in the camp. A lazy boy, moaned a lot and tried to get more treatment for his wound, using up valuable resources. He was sulky and selfish, and I can see how he would manipulate someone as sweet as Jean. Emotional blackmail, Jean said, the worst kind."

"Exactly, so now you know her story ..."

"It doesn't change what I think about her, dad," he picked up the tray, "that she is a totally respectable woman, intelligent and caring," his voice dropped to a whisper, "and a damned pretty one too."

"You behave," his father warned.

"I will, I won't have her reputation sullied, or embarrass her or hurt her, at least I will do my best."

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Jean looked at her reflection in the bathroom mirror and grimaced. Her eyes were puffy and her nose was red, her makeup streaked but strangely her hair was not out of place. Lucien had stroked it gently and it had stayed in place, in spite of her refusal to have it rigidly set each week and sprayed with hairspray until quite stiff, or wear a hairnet, at her age that was ridiculous, she thought. She splashed cold water on her face then held a cold flannel over her eyes hoping to reduced the signs of weeping.

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True to his word, Lucien was more than capable of preparing a sandwich, for himself, his father and Jean, it was on the table when she came down the stairs, the makeup repaired and a semblance of control on her face. She didn't really have much of an appetite though she did try to eat. Thomas watched her pick at the food but she refused to make eye contact.

"Jean," he eventually sighed, "why don't you take the afternoon off."

She looked up and shook her head, "no, it's alright," she muttered, "there is a full surgery."

"Lucien and I can do that," he continued, "you go and potter in the garden or have a lie down - you look all in."

"Thomas ..."

"Jean," Lucien interrupted, "I'm sorry, really, but even I remember what Ballarat is like - talk, gossip. Someone is bound to have heard. You don't need that, in the waiting room, take the afternoon off, we will be fine."

"But ..."

"If you need to see we are behaving ourselves, tea half way would be nice," Lucien smiled. He had a cheeky smile, when he needed to use it he did, and this was one time he needed to use it.

"If you think so?" she sighed in reply.

"As your doctor," Thomas pursed his lips, "I prescribe it."

"I didn't know Jean was on our list, dad," Lucien raised an eyebrow.

"Since she was born," he grinned back. "hardly ever saw her, too darned healthy."

Lucien laughed softly.

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The feel of the cool earth beneath her hands, the smell of the jasmine and lavender calmed her and she knew that the two doctors had been right, all along, that she should take the time to think about what her mother had done. She didn't hate her, but it hurt, that she should deny her the chance to say goodbye to her father. Perhaps, with her death, she had been offered a second chance to do so. She would see how much it would cost to arrange a proper Catholic mass for both of them, her final filial duty. She had some savings, her wages from Thomas had been used to clothe her and the girls, he gave her extra for Li, and buy little treats for them, but the rest had been sitting in the bank earning a little interest.

She stood up and brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes, surveying the work. The border was clear of any weeds, the dead heading had been done and the new growth of jasmine had been tied over the fence. Now it was time for tea.

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She washed her hands and set the kettle to boil. It would be a challenge, she thought, to take the tray through to Lucien, then to Thomas, who was holding court and telling amusing stories in the waiting room. She had heard the laughter of the patients.

She added two small plates of shortbread to the tea cups on the tray, and headed, back straight and head high to the surgery.

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She took Thomas his tea first. Agnes Clasby was sitting there telling him how she knew Lucien would be a son to be proud of. She nodded to Jean as she put the cup of tea on the desk, with the plate of shortbread. There were no other patients, Jean thought she must have been so engrossed in her gardening that her timing was 'off'.

"Can I get you a cup of tea, Miss Clasby?" she smiled.

"Very kind of you Jean, but, I think Dr Blake will be ready for me before you have poured," she smiled, "another time, my dear."

The smile and the tone was kind and sympathetic but not condescending and Jean recognised the veiled support, which was what she had come to expect from the ladies.

Jean nodded and headed to the consulting room to take Lucien his tea.

"Aah, lovely, Jean," he smiled, "thank you."

"Will that be all, doctor?" she asked politely, as if nothing had happened.

"For now, yes," he kept it stiff and formal, for her sake.

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Jean had never been able to hide anything from Mary and this time was no different. Her daughter noticed her teary eyes and downcast expression as soon as she entered the house.

"Mum?" she stood at the kitchen door and looked at her. She was going about her usual business, preparing dinner, setting biscuits and juice on the table for the two of them, but her heart wasn't in it.

"Hello, love," Jean forced a smile, "good day?"

"Fine," she closed the gap between them, "what's happened, you look as if you've been crying?"

Jean bit her lip, she wanted to tell Mary but privately, not even in front of Li. Now she would have to tell Mary the whole story, she hoped that, at nearly thirteen, she would understand. She certainly knew more than Jean did at that age, at thirteen Jean hadn't even started the change into womanhood and she knew nothing of that side of life.

Li looked from one to the other and then around the kitchen, "I can carry on, mama," she smiled, dropping her bag onto a chair, "if you want to talk to Mary."

When did a nine year old, alright, nearly ten year old, become so intuitive?

"Thank you, Li," Jean straightened, "perhaps in my room, Mary."

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She sat on her bed and patted the space next to her for Mary to join her.

"I heard today that my mother has died," she started from the end, "and my father."

"I'm sorry, mum," Mary took her hand, "both together?"

"No," her shoulders slumped, "mother was the autopsy Uncle Lucien had to do, the other day, you know, when he wasn't in for dinner and away before breakfast."

Mary nodded.

"My father, it appears died a while ago, but mother buried him on the farm and didn't tell anyone."

"Aren't you supposed to?"

"Quite," Jean nodded. Questions and answers were easiest.

"So why didn't she?"

"So I wouldn't know," she sighed and looked down, "my mother didn't like that father tried to keep in touch and sent you cards. We had fallen out."

"Mum," Mary mused, "why did you fall out? I mean I can't imagine not wanting you around, hating you that much."

"Thank you, darling," Jean gave a hint of a smile, "and I wouldn't hate you for doing what I did - I fell pregnant, with you, before I was married to your father. We were pressured into marrying, and as you know, it didn't go well, at all."

"Oh," Mary thought for a few moments, the circumstances of her conception had never occurred to her, or bothered her. She didn't miss having a father, she had 'doc-doc', gran'pa' and she remembered saying he was better than any daddy, "but still," she continued, "you did marry him, so why still hate you?"

"I did everything the church tells you not to: I was intimate with a man before I married, I conceived a child out of wedlock and then I divorced him, really Mary, not a very good advert for the Catholic church, or for myself."

"Why did you divorce him?" Mary did wonder if this was a step too far, but it wasn't going to make any difference to how she felt about her mother and her family, this family here on Mycroft Avenue.

"He left me, before you were born. I couldn't work on the farm at six months pregnant and his parents couldn't support me, though they wanted to, so I came to Thomas to take up the offer of post as housekeeper he made to me before I married and on my wedding day. Your father disappeared off the face of the earth and I had legal grounds and the church called it Defect of Contract, meaning they would annul the marriage and I would be free to marry again, in church." Jean waited for a reaction, or more questions. She was prepared for both and as Mary hadn't shouted or cried or told her she was a bad person, perhaps it would be alright.

"He doesn't sound very nice," Mary pursed her lips.

"He was good looking, cheeky and very persuasive," Jean admitted, "he told me that if I loved him, and I thought I did, I would let him er ..."

"... I get the idea, mum," Mary touched her hand to stop her.

"Yes well," Jean cleared her throat, "but it wasn't just the once, and each time I tried to say no he did the whole emotional blackmail thing. Mother practically threw me out when I found out I had caught, I was going to leave town, but Thomas found me at the bus stop, insisted on giving me a check up, offering me a job, telling Christopher's parents, who insisted he marry me and grow up. Trouble is, he didn't grow up." She looked deep into her daughter's eyes, "Mary, love, don't make the same mistake I did. It doesn't make me love you any less, I love you so much and always will. You may have been a mistake, but I'm very glad I made it."

"Did you ever find him?"

"He stopped by, before the war, he died in the same camp Lucien was in, Lucien tried to help him but he ended up being executed for trying to escape."

"Well, mum," Mary stood up and held out her hand, "I never knew him and I guess I haven't missed him, though I am sorry about your father. His cards were always very sweet. Let's go and have dinner, I'm hungry and I bet you haven't eaten much. Who told you, by the way?"

"Uncle Lucien," Jean took the hand, "he and Thomas insisted I have the afternoon off, in the garden, I was upset about father. I shall try and organise a mass for them, I should, really."

"That's up to you, mum," Mary wrapped her arm round her mother's shoulders, "you do what you think is right, and what you think he would want."

"I will," Jean slipped her arm round Mary's waist, "I'm glad you understand."

"We have a good life here, mum, this shouldn't change it. Does Uncle Lucien know everything?"

"He does."

And because Jean wasn't packing their suitcases she surmised Uncle Lucien didn't have a problem with her wayward mother!


	11. Chapter 11

Jean was surprised but touched that Christopher's parents should choose to attend the small mass for her parents. Thomas and Lucien had insisted and the girls said they would be there for her. It was a small affair, just the mass and a committal at the graveside. Jean had not even had a viewing, on Lucien's suggestion.

"Your father doesn't look his best, Jean," he smiled gently, "perhaps it's best you remember him the way he was."

She hadn't slept particularly well in the ten days it took to arrange the funeral. She hadn't been able to afford much and when Lucien and Thomas managed to get her to admit this they had insisted they loan her the money, they could take it back slowly by paying her a little less.

"It makes sense, Jean," Thomas had taken her aside, "you mustn't use all your savings, you've worked hard for them. When the bank has sorted out the estate and you have decided what you want to do with the farm you will be able to deal with it better."

"I need to go up there," she sighed, not really wanting to, "clear it out, see if either made a will ..."

"As far as I am aware you are the only living relative, apart from your aunt, so everything should come to you, unless your parents decided to cut you off, though I doubt your father did," he mused, "now, no going up there alone. Take Lucien, or Matthew, or Bill, someone who knew them."

"Lucien didn't," she reminded him.

"Maybe it would be better if he went then, he will be less likely to bring up things remembered, if you know what I mean."

"Hmm ..." she murmured, "you may be right."

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The door was locked. Lucien stepped back to look for another way in, while Jean, knowing her late parents were creatures of habit, stepped to the side and tipped a milk pail with plants that had died due to lack of water and retrieved the key from underneath.

"Some things don't change," she sighed and unlocked the door, pushing it open to show the kitchen as Mrs Randall had left it. Tidy, with a milk jug in the middle of the table next to a now hardened loaf of bread on its board and oily looking butter in a dish. "She usually kept the butter in the fridge, in the hot weather."

"Makes sense," Lucien shrugged, taking in the room. It was nothing out of the ordinary, not much different to one or two he had been in when he made a house call.

Jean wrinkled her nose, then headed to the sink and opened the cupboard underneath it. The smell even made Lucien step back.

"Bin needs emptying," she remarked and carried it out, at arm's length. Lucien heard the clang of the dustbin lid and she returned empty handed. She shrugged at his expression. He supposed she was right and took the butter and bread off the table and took it outside, where he dropped that into the bin, too.

In the house, Jean had moved into the living room, which had obviously been cleaned before her mother went out into the garden. There was a thin film of dust, nothing that would take long to deal with. The fire grate was empty, the cushions plumped on the couch and chairs and the book she must have been reading was set on the side table, a bookmark indicating she was half way through. Jean picked it up and opened it.

"This book belongs to Jean Mary Randall," still inscribed in her childish hand. Her copy of Jane Eyre, she must have left it behind when she moved into the cottage with Christopher, so her mother kept things to remind her of her daughter, did she? She turned to the desk where letters were written and her father kept his paperwork in order. She pulled out a drawer and started to lift the books, papers and notes onto the desk the better to look at them.

"There you are," Lucien stood behind her, "ok?"

"Dad's papers," she held up his bank book, "he kept everything in here, well just about everything." She put the little book to the side and turned her attention to the farm accounts. Opening it she saw they hadn't really been running it as a commercial enterprise for some time. Just selling enough produce to keep it ticking over, pay for the day to day running of the place, food and clothing, though she supposed her mother mended the things they had. She noticed they didn't owe anybody anything, so at least she didn't have to deal with that. There were a few receipts and little notes, nothing of any consequence. There was a long legal-looking envelope labelled, 'WILL', in scratchy lettering.

"Dad's pen," she gave a half laugh, "he bent so many nibs ..." She pulled the document out. "I suppose I am allowed to read it, aren't I?"

"No one here to tell you otherwise, Jean," Lucien shrugged, "though you may need to go to his solicitor to have everything seen to."

She unfolded the paper and read down it, quickly, there wasn't much.

"It appears the farm is to be sold, and the money comes to me, but I have to give some to Mary," she bit her lip, he had remembered his granddaughter, "but see here," she pointed to a scrawled note at the bottom, "not if you go first."

"Mother," Jean slumped and leant on the desk.

"I wonder if she made a will."

"If we can't find one, or there isn't one at the solicitor's..?" Jean questioned, this was not something she had ever had to deal with.

"Then I expect this one will stand," Lucien passed her the envelope to put it back into, then slipped it into his inside jacket pocket. "Where would she keep one, if she wrote it?"

"The bedroom?" she mused, "her cabinet, dad never went in there, he wouldn't dare."

"Sounds like your mother was a force to be reckoned with," Lucien stood aside to let her lead the way.

"Not in a good way," Jean huffed, "she had a vicious tongue if either of us transgressed, and a hard hand if I did wrong."

"When you got pregnant?"

"I'm surprised I didn't lose her, Mary, that is," Jean sniffed, close to tears for what she could have lost, "I got such a hiding, until dad stepped in. Told her she would kill me if she carried on."

"Bloody hell, Jean," he breathed, putting his hand in his pockets to prevent a, possibly, unwanted hug. She just shrugged and headed out of the room down to where her parents' bedroom was.

The bed was neatly made, Mrs Randall's robe hung on the door, and if Jean cared to lift the pillow she would find the neatly folded nightdress her mother had worn. There was no sign of her father's nightwear, or robe and when Jean opened the wardrobe, no sign of his clothes, or in the chest - all were gone.

"She seems to have erased him from her life, completely," Lucien muttered.

"Somehow I'm not surprised," she sighed, turning her attention to the drawer in the bedside cabinet. It was locked.

"Key?" Lucien wondered if she knew where that was hidden, as she had done with the house door.

Jean opened a small jewellery box in which was found a few trinkets. Lucien hadn't expected anything more, they were not wealthy people. Mrs Randall's wedding ring had been a thin band of low quality gold and she wore no earrings or a necklace, not even a cross on a chain. Jean wore both, he noticed, he wondered who had given them to her, or was the cross a baptism gift and the earrings something she had chosen after she started to work for his father. She was always well dressed, neatly turned out, his father would have said.

"Aha," she uttered a little triumphant shout, "thought you could hide it, did you?" She held up a little key and grinned. Not normally a vindictive person, or given to trying to get one over on someone she was finding this rather cathartic.

The drawer opened to show some low value coins, a prayer book and rosary, and a little diary.

"Oh," Jean hummed, "I don't know ..."

"See if she made an appointment to see the solicitor, Jean," Lucien touched her shoulder, "she can't see you now, she won't know."

"I suppose, but ... it's her diary," she looked into his face for help, support.

"Shall I, as police surgeon," he held out his hand.

"Yes ... yes please," she passed it over and waited while he flicked the pages to the last month or two.

"What is the date of your father's will, Jean?" he carried on flicking through the pages.

She held out her hand, "I need to look at it." He looked at her then realised he had it.

"Sorry," he pulled it out and passed it to her.

"Twelfth of August," she slipped it back into the envelope.

"Right" he flicked to that date and started to turn the pages more slowly. "Aha," he grinned, "here we go, 'see Mr Jeffreys, solicitor', dated ... tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Jean peered over his hand, "so, does that mean she hasn't made a will? That dad's stands?"

"Unless she intended to change one she had already made, I suppose it does," he agreed.

"Should I keep the appointment, change it to in my name," she handed the will back, "I need to let him know that they are both gone, don't I?"

"Best ring him, when we get back," he waited to see what else she intended to do.

"Right," she sighed heavily, "well, let's see what else I need to do. This room will need clearing."

"Slow down, Jean," he touched her arm, "there is no hurry ..."

"No," she shook her head, "no, Lucien, I need to get it done, out of the way, I don't like things hanging over me."

"Then let me help you," he said softly, "you don't have to do it on your own."

"Lucien, I ..."

"At least let me fetch and carry for you, lift the heavy things ... please," he smiled, "I don't want to have to treat you for a strained back, now, do I?"

One thing she had learned about Lucien Blake was that he was very persuasive, but only for the right things, and in this case he was right. The furniture was solid wood and hard to move, she would struggle on her own but she couldn't take him away from surgery or the morgue, that was how he earned his money, how he paid her.

"How about we see what needs doing, then arrange a day when we can come up here and just get it done?" he had watched her think this thing over, his offer to help.

"I suppose that would work," she hummed, "some things might go to the op shop, perhaps."

"Or you could auction off the furnishings and the property separately," he suggested, "what about any farm stuff, could you sell that?"

"It depends on the state it's in," she pursed her lips, it was a good idea. She had been to farm sales, as a child, with her father and it was a good way to pass things on, "but it might work."

"Good, now, which room next?"

"There's only the bathroom and what was my room," she shrugged, "suppose I'd better throw out the bathroom stuff, that's not sellable."

The bathroom, like the other rooms in the small house, was clean and neat. Jean took the small hand-towel off the rail and proceeded to put the toiletries, half used bottles of shampoo, hand-cream and tube of toothpaste on it, together with the flannel and toothbrush and mug. She wrapped it all up in a secure bundle and handed it to Lucien.

"Bin?"

"Bin," she confirmed. Neither commented on the lack of a second toothbrush or shaving equipment for her father, though Lucien did wonder at the mental state of the woman who had obliterated her family from her life. He didn't think there would be much in Jean's room when they got to it.

He was right. The bed was unmade, the mattress covered by an old bedspread that the moths had made much use of. The little bedside cabinet was empty and covered with dust, anything that Jean may have left behind when she moved to live with Christopher in the little cottage had been removed, thrown out he assumed, and the room had an abandoned feel to it. It was cold, bleak - the only residents now were spiders, the only decoration the cobwebs they spun to catch the flies.

Jean stood next to him, just inside the room, her arms wrapped around her slight body as she shivered and bit her lip. Here she had lost herself in the stories she read, taking her far away from the hard life as a farmer's daughter; dreamed her dreams of travel and love only to have them crushed, turned to dust by the manipulation of a handsome boy and the turning of her mother's back.

Lucien heard her choked sigh and turned to see her fighting tears, a fight she was losing. He reached his arm round her shoulders and at first she stiffened. He had been so gentle when he had told her of her parents' passing but she didn't want it to become a habit, crying on his shoulder, however he didn't pull her to him, just ... and it was so cold, he would be so warm, it would be so easy - it was so easy to break, and she did. Before she realised it she was sobbing against his chest, breathing in the scent of his cologne, the faint smell of the laundry product she used to wash his shirts and his own warm scent all mixed together ...

He stared over at the wall, his arms wrapped round her, she felt almost fragile in his arms. He barely knew her, and yet he knew her well, he thought. She had raised his daughter, cared for his father, run the house, managed the surgery she had always been so strong, he could understand why, she had had to be, but she didn't have to carry this burden alone, he could help her, if she would let him.

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They looked round the barn, Jean now composed, and at the machinery. There was an old tractor and the plough, a trailer that Lucien supposed would have been used to carry whatever they grew ... what did they grow? - whatever they grew to the barn, or to market or wherever.

"Does it still run?" he waved his hand at the tractor.

"I don't know," she shrugged and walked over to it. She had learned to drive it before she had learnt to drive a car. She climbed aboard and reached under the seat for the key, that was where it was always hidden, just underneath on a hook her father had put there, so many years ago.

She pumped the accelerator and turned the key; it coughed and spluttered and then died. She tried again, fiddling with the clutch as she turned the key and gently pressed the accelerator - it coughed and spluttered again but just before it died, again, Jean fiddled with the clutch and it roared into life.

"Bravo!" Lucien applauded, "well done."

She smiled, for the first time since they had arrived, "just have to know how to handle her," she remarked, "well a tractor that runs will be worth more than one that doesn't. Hop up, I'll take you on a tour."

He duly 'hopped up' and hung on as she slowly drove out of the barn and headed towards the field. It was a bumpy ride but Jean seemed to know what she was doing. She expertly manoeuvred the vehicle through the gates and towards the middle of the field. There wasn't much growing, mainly weeds, Lucien thought, though horticulture wasn't his strong point.

"This used to be potatoes," she stopped the tractor but left the engine running, "it doesn't look like anything was planted this year." She jumped down and bent to the earth. Running her hands over the dry soil she pursed her lips and shook her head.

"Nothing," she sighed and brushed the dirt from her hands, before climbing up again. "Looks like they stopped working it. We grew potatoes, carrots and cabbages, in this half and over there," she pointed to the corner where her father had been buried, "we grew lettuces. The land wasn't bad, not wonderful but we grew enough to keep a roof over our heads."

"Wonder why they stopped," Lucien murmured, "I mean, how would they earn a living if they stopped working the farm?"

"I suppose dad was getting on a bit," she shrugged, "the work is hard, it grinds you down."

"I can imagine," he agreed, "back breaking? Hot? Draining?"

"That just about sums it up," she waited, "hop on, if you want a lift back."

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On the way back to Mycroft Avenue they talked about what it would take to make the auction and sale of the farm an attractive proposition.

"The house needs to be clean," she hummed, "the kitchen in working order, and it needs to look inviting. At the moment it looks rejected, abandoned. Perhaps I should wait to sell the land until I can show it is fertile."

"But wouldn't that mean waiting a good six months, if not longer?" Lucien swung the Riley onto the drive, "you couldn't plant anything now, could you?"

"I could try a winter crop," she knew he was right, planting a crop in the field would take all her time and energy, and she wasn't paid to run her farm, "no, you're right, I shall have to rely on the good memories of the local farmers."

"I know nothing about farming, Jean," he admitted, turning off the ignition, "but could you sell the house and the land separately. Then it doesn't have to be a farm. I did hear that builders are looking for land, you know, for houses."

"I never thought of that," she accepted his hand as she got out of the car, "it's always been one thing to me, a farm."

Lucien smiled, she looked so dainty as she stepped out of the car, he felt she was meant for a better life than farming or being a housekeeper.

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Mr Jeffreys stood and extended his hand. He had no problem meeting the daughter of the deceased couple, and said how sorry he was that she had lost both her parents so close together.

"Thank you," she smiled and sat down in the seat opposite him. "I have a copy of my father's will, and I was wondering if my mother made one."

"Actually, I believe that was what she wanted to talk to me about, today, but ..." he sighed, "I suppose that the one your father made, in ..." he checked his notes, "August, is the only one."

"I'm sure you realise I have read it, but it is the comment on the bottom, in mother's hand that I worry about," she passed over the document.

"Oh," he raised his eyebrows and adjusted the spectacles on the bridge of his nose, "well, that's different. However," he put it down and looked at her, "this had no legal standing, your father's will states you have everything, sell the farm and give a portion of the money to your daughter. Your mother didn't make a will, Mrs Beazley," he harrumphed, "the house, land and paraphernalia all are yours to do with what you will."

"Oh right, well," she took her father's bank book out of her handbag, "the bank will not let me access the money in the account. I have to pay Dr Blake back, he loaned me the money for the funeral mass. It was a kindness that I must repay."

"I shall see to it, for you," he smiled again, "if there is anything I can do, to help you at this sad time ..."

"Mr Jeffreys," she stood and extended her hand, "you have helped me enormously already, but, should I ever need legal advice I shall be sure to come to you."

"Given your father's will, Mrs Beazley," he shook her hand, "if I can help you with the sale, I shall only be too happy."

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It was very close to Christmas to auction a farm but Jean wanted it out of the way. It preyed on her mind, even gave her the odd nightmare, so she persisted in organising, cleaning and throwing out the things that were of no use or value.

Lucien had found her an auctioneer who wouldn't charge her the earth and the day was set. It was bright and sunny, hot and the weather drew the crowds. Jean prepared jugs of lemonade for those who required it, tea for those who wanted it, which at least showed any prospective buyers the kitchen worked.

The first things to be auctioned off was the furniture. The wardrobes and bedside cabinets went quickly, but not for much, the beds were next then the desk, to a young couple who were setting up home in a small farm on the Daylesford road, and the church paid a pittance for the couch and chairs, which they found out later were for the church hall.

The next things on the list were the tractor, and other pieces of machinery. All had been looked over by local famers, the tractor engine had been turned over and Jean had reassured prospective buyers it worked very well.

Jean had had to be there on her own. The girls were at school and Lucien had been called out to a death by Lake Wendouree so she didn't have him there. He dropped her off before heading to meet Matthew and Ashby. Thomas was at home, manning the small surgery and, for an independent woman, she felt strangely lonely. She kept telling herself she didn't need support from either man, but all the same ... it would have been nice.

When all that was left to sell was the house and the field Jean was beginning to flag. The bids for the house seemed to be going slowly. The auctioneer pointed out it's good points: well maintained, two bedrooms and modern plumbing, clean, bright kitchen with a working range, room to extend ...She barely noticed the figure hovering at the back of the crowd, occasionally whispering in a buyer's ear but in the end it sold, for a fair price, when all was said and done. The final sale was for the field. This was offered as prime farming land, which she wasn't sure about, as nothing was growing there, or good development land. There were three bidders and again the figure hovered, and she realised it was Lucien, upping the bids, playing one buyer off against another. Whether she was grateful for his 'interference' or not she wasn't sure, she had made enough to pay back the loan for the funeral with some to spare even taking into account the auctioneer's fee, so Mary would have some for her savings account. She wondered if Lucien would be offended if she added some to Li's account, the one Thomas had set up with the legacy from Mei Lin's father. Technically she had nothing to do with her family, no right to expect anything but she was just as much a daughter to her as Mary was. Perhaps it would be better if she just bought her a treat, something a bit special for Christmas.

The bidding was finally over, and despite Lucien or possibly because of him, the land had sold for what she considered to be a good price, what, for her and the agent Lucien had insisted look over it, felt the land was worth.

"Mrs Beazley," the auctioneer held out his hand, "that's all done. I shall sort out the income for yourself, less my fee and it should be with you by the end of the week."

"Thank you," she took his hand, "you have been very helpful, I'm glad it was all able to be completed in one day."

"I agree, it doesn't do for these things, in these circumstances, to drag on," he tipped his hat and lifted his briefcase, "I shall be in touch."

She watched him leave and sighed, he was right, it was good to get it over with, she could go on with her life, such as it was. Though Mary had said it was a good life, the day she had told her the circumstances of her conception and the reason for Jean ending the marriage to her father.

Lucien waited until she was on her own, but left her to her musings a few minutes more. She felt him at her side, "thank you," she whispered, not turning, still staring over the field, for possibly the last time. "You were a bit naughty though, doctor," she turned and smiled a little smile, "playing one off against the other."

"Well, I thought the bids were a bit low," he grinned, "given what the agent said the land was worth."

"The land is worth what someone will pay for it," she hummed, "but I know that, should you dispense with my services Mary and me will be able to set ourselves up in a small house."

"What?" he laughed, "and how am I supposed to manage without a daily piece of shortbread, and you know I would be no use at running the business side of things," he took her hand, "I have no intention of 'dispensing with your services', Jean. Anyway, we are a family, odd though it seems, disconnected as we may be, I think we are a family, don't you?"

"In an odd sort of way, I suppose you are right," she looked into his blue eyes, the ones she could happily drown in, "now," she sighed, "I suppose we had better collect the jugs and biscuit tin and go home."

Lucien held her basket while she loaded the things she had taken with her and then carried it to the car.

"Thank you, Lucien," she smiled, "for all your help, with everything."

"I'm sure it wasn't easy," he touched her arm, "but I hope I wasn't in the way, or interfered. I know I can go a bit too far, sometimes, I just wanted to help."

"Oh Lucien," she laughed, "you didn't interfere, well not too much, just enough. It's a long time since I have needed help, or even had someone offer." She heaved a sigh, "you made it easier, just by being there," she blushed furiously, this was not a conversation between employer and employee, it was between friends.

"I'm glad to help, Jean," he rubbed her arm, "you don't have to do everything on your own, you know."

They stood staring at each other, Lucien fighting the urge to kiss her, just gently, on the cheek, and Jean battling her need to fall into his arms, even though she wasn't crying, this time.

"Well," she swallowed, "we'd better get back, if anyone wants any dinner tonight."

"Quite."

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"Are we having two trees again this year, mum," Mary started to untangle the strings of coloured lights.

"I don't see why not," Jean nodded, wondering how a set of lights that she had put away neatly wrapped around a piece of wood could get so badly tied up, "best ask gran'pa if he wants them, though."

"Ok," she smiled, "though you know what he's like ...?"

"What who's like?" Thomas' voice floated from the dining room where he was setting out a pile of Christmas music to be played on the piano, "anyone I know?"

Mary laughed, "you, gran'pa," she teased, "over trees, Christmas trees in the house."

"Cheek, you youngsters these days," he stumped through, "two I hope, unless you can think of where we can put a third."

"You don't have to vacuum the needles up, Thomas," Jean huffed good naturedly, "two is plenty, one in the studio and one here."

"Can't we squeeze one in the surgery or at least the waiting room?" he raised his eyebrows and looked hopeful.

Jean laughed and shook her head, then returned to the kitchen to finish preparing the dinner.

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The trouble with having Thomas in the house all the time was nobody could sneak anything in, so the box sat in the boot of the car for three days.

"What is it, Jean?" Lucien was like a small boy, desperate to know what she had to hide from his father.

"Wait until he has gone to bed, tonight," she smirked, "then you can help me."

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They were the only people left. The girls had gone to bed, Thomas had, finally, retired for the evening so Jean felt it was safe to pull Lucien into her little surprise for the elder doctor.

"Every year," she smiled as they headed up the hall to the front door, "since we opened the studio and started putting a tree there as well as in the living room he has asked if we can have one in the waiting room."

"Where on earth would it stand?" he asked unlocking the boot for her and lifting out the box. "That room is so small."

"Exactly," she nodded firmly, lifting a second, smaller box, "so, this year I had a good look round town and found the solution."

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She cleared a spot on the corner of the desk she usually sat at and moved the typewriter further over from the centre.

"Shall I open it?" he asked, eyes wide like a child.

"Oh go on then," she laughed, "and I thought I only had two children in the house." While this remark was one she would not have made a month ago, something had happened the day he had picked her up from the auction, they had changed. He had said they were a family, which she had always believed, but now she felt it even more. The only difference was she was paid to be there.

"Jean," he grinned, "this is the first Christmas I have had in five years, and only the second I have had with my daughter. She wasn't a year old at her first, I am very much looking forward to it."

"Sometimes, Lucien," she went over to him and touched his arm, not something she did, it was usually the other way round, "I forget you have been away, I'm sorry, I just feel you have always been here." She blushed, which made him laugh, but she blushed even harder when he picked up her hand and kissed it, lightly.

"It's been remarkably easy to slot in," he smiled, "and that is all because of you, you took my arrival as if I had just been away in Melbourne for a while. So many times even the professionals tiptoed round us POWs as if we would break. Thank you."

She cleared her throat and drew her hand away, slowly. "Shall we," she waved at the box.

"Oh," he gasped, "oh Jean, what a lovely idea."

He pulled out a small tree, the branches were made of rayon and came off a solid trunk of plastic, he thought. It had a box base which had a small key hole in one side. He set the box where she had cleared the space and started to pull the branches out.

Jean opened the smaller box and took out some baubles, tinsel and a string of lights, and a small star for the top.

When it was decorated and Lucien had put the star on the top, Jean took a key from the box the tree had come in and turned it in the keyhole. Silent Night tinkled from the box and when Jean turned the lights on they stood side by side to survey their handiwork.

"Jean ..." he breathed, "it's lovely."

"Happy Christmas, Lucien," she whispered, it seemed appropriate she should say this now, while they were alone and all was quiet.

"To you too, Jean," he bent and kissed her cheek, swiftly, the softest of touches.

She turned and lifted herself onto her tiptoes and kissed his cheek, "good night." This time she didn't blush.

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Jean lay in bed and smiled at the memory of his beard tickling her cheek when he kissed her, and that she wasn't embarrassed or offended. They had come to this stage in their relationship very quickly but it seemed right. Of course he had had girls, young women flutter their eyelashes at the handsome doctor who had taken over his father's practice, but they were giddy, giggled like schoolgirls when he spoke to them. She had seen them, in town, in the surgery. There were those who made appointments with no reason, but she couldn't refuse them, just to have him smile at them or listen to their lungs and hearts. He knew, in fact he said as much, but he also said it was rather off putting and he was perfectly capable of choosing his own lady friend, as he put it. She did wonder if he had chosen her. Would this be the love she should have waited for, a love based on trust and respect?

Her hand moved to the curls at the apex of her thighs and she wondered what it would feel like to have Lucien do this to her.

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Lucien was having trouble sleeping. He had gone to bed and thought about how Jean had kissed his cheek. He had wanted nothing but her friendship, to begin with, but more and more, as she moved about the house, discussed, with intelligence, his cases, the goings on in town, looked after the girls, teased his father and gently organised the older man, he wanted her love. She was totally different to any woman he had ever met. She made no demands on him, like Mei Lin had, didn't expect more than he gave. She didn't flutter her eyelids at him, like the young women who came to his surgery or giggle girlishly at his silly remarks, she often had her own put down or rejoinder.

He wasn't interested in bedding any willing female that came along, those days were gone, now he would have to wait until Jean was ready, and he was absolutely sure she would not sleep with him outside the bounds of marriage, but were both of them ready to take that step, just yet? His hands wandered to the hardness in his pyjama trousers and he knew, again, he would have to satisfy himself, blushing that she would know ... she washed his bed-linen. As his release came, he wondered if she did the same.

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While Christmas had always been a time of joy in the Blake/Beazley house this year the air was charged with excitement. Lucien was a cross between a naughty puppy and a small child, his happiness was infectious. Jean pretended to be annoyed at his constant questions, dipping his finger into mixtures for things she was baking and his constant humming of Christmas carols - though his voice was rather good. In truth, she didn't mind and he didn't seem to mind having his knuckles rapped with the spoon.

Then there was the question of gifts. What could she get him? She usually gave Thomas a copy of a book he wanted, or a record he had mentioned. But for Lucien she wanted to give him something a little more personal, without it being inappropriate. She thought of a tie, but he had bought ties when he had had his suits made for duties as a doctor and a police surgeon, and only wives of girlfriends should buy men ties, she was neither. He went through handkerchiefs with alarming speed but Li was going to give him a dozen with his initials embroidered in the corner; Mary had designed a monogram for him and Li was steadily stitching her way through the pile. Mary had painted a picture of Li and was having it framed for him, Thomas was having the plate at the end of the drive replaced with his son's name and occupation. Jean was at a loss. In the end it was he himself who gave her the idea. She couldn't find the pen she habitually used to write her shopping lists, do the accounts with or write letters. It wasn't an expensive one, just a standard ball point, one she could easily replace at the newsagents, but she wanted to write some appointments in the diary. She resorted to a pencil out of the drawer.

Lucien wandered through to the kitchen, surgery over, nothing down at the station he was wondering if Jean wanted something doing, or if he could annoy her in any way. There were no interesting smells coming from the kitchen so there was nothing to dip his finger into, sadly.

"Lucien," she turned from writing the appointment, "don't suppose you know where my pen is, do you? It was here on the diary."

"Oh," he patted his jacket down, "er, this one?" he held up the item, retrieved from his inside jacket pocket, "sorry, mine is making holes in the paper, I dropped it and the nib's bent."

"You're as bad as my father used to be," she laughed, "never mind, you hang on to it, I'll get another when I go out, tomorrow."

"Sure?"

"It's fine," she closed the book, "now, can I do anything for you?"

He thought there were quite a number of things she could do for him, and most of them required her to remove her clothes, and he his.

"No, actually, I wondered if there was anything you needed doing," he shoved his hands in his pockets.

Jean had much the same thoughts as him, but ...

"You can make a cuppa," she suggested, "I haven't had time and your father will be wanting one."

"Where is he?"

"In the garden, reading the paper."

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"Hello, son," Thomas removed the paper from his face and sat up in his chair, "sent out?"

"Jean said you might like a cuppa, she's busy doing something," he put the tray down and shrugged.

"She's always busy, haven't you noticed?" his father smiled, "I don't think I've ever known her sit down with her feet up, except when I wouldn't let her do anything after Mary was born."

"Mm.." he hummed and sat down opposite him, "yes, nothing is ever left, is it?"

"Will you take me into town, tomorrow, I need to get her a gift, and the girls," Thomas poured them both a cup of tea, "you need to think about it too."

"I thought I might get Li a book, or maybe some jewellery, a locket, perhaps," he mused, "Mary needs some art things, she doesn't have a proper easel - but it's Jean, I don't have a clue what to get her, without offending her."

"She's not easy to buy for, I'll admit," Thomas agreed.

That was no help.

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In the end Lucien took a day off from all duties and went to Melbourne. Shopping for a Christmas gift for his housekeeper in Ballarat was bound to get tongues wagging, and if he was to get Mary an easel he needed to go somewhere he hoped was still trading - the art shop his mother used to get her supplies from.

With the easel tucked under his arm he wandered the streets wondering what he could buy Li and Jean. He knew Li had a gold locket, one of his mother's apparently so he thought a silver one would be good, and headed to the jewellers. where he found what he was looking forward. Heart shaped, with delicate engraving of a flower on the front. He wondered if he could get it engraved, in Ballarat, before Christmas. Now to Jean.

He wandered, deep in thought. What did she do, apart from cook and clean? She knit, sewed; a new sewing machine would be good, the one she used was a little old and battered, but ... no, a little too much for ones housekeeper. Her sewing basket was nothing special, just a basket that she rummaged through for the thread she needed or her needle packet. He sighed, was there such a thing as a sewing basket, purpose made for the keeping of haberdashery?

He was just considering he was out of luck when he passed a drapers and haberdashers. It couldn't hurt to ask, he supposed, rather glumly.

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"I see," the woman behind the counter nodded when he told her of his dilemma, "well, perhaps I may have what you are looking for." She bustled into the back of the shop and presently returned with a wooden box under her arm. She set it on the counter and started to explain how it worked.

"You see," she pulled the top two handles apart and it opened on a cantilever - three layers - the top two split and the bottom on was the base, long and big enough to store spare knitting needles, he thought. "easy to find everything one needs, threads on the top one side, needles and pins the other?" She suggested.

"Yes, quite, perhaps a few things in it, would appropriate," he hummed, "she replaces a lot of shirt buttons," he reddened slightly, "so, er ..."

"How about," she reached under the counter and brought out threads in black and white plus the primary colours, "one of each, then," she added needles and a box of pins, a tape measure, scissors, a triangle of something he had no idea what, safety pins, a card of two sizes of poppers and one of shirt buttons. "That should cover everything," she smiled, "and there's room for the things she already has."

"Goodness," he pushed his hat back on his head, "I had no idea there was so much to sewing."

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Sneaking his purchases into the house was not easy. Jean heard him as he banged through the front door.

"Is that you, Lucien!" she called, wiping her hands on her apron.

He looked round, making a dash for it down the hall was not going to work, the guest room, just by the front door ... he slipped in and pushed the packages under the bed and closed the door quickly.

"Yes, I'm back!" he smiled at her as she greeted him. "Miss me?" he teased.

"Did you get what you were looking for?" she smiled, she had missed him, strangely, it had been quiet, she had forgotten what 'quiet' was.

"Yes, got a lovely locket for Li, and an easel for Mary," he put his hat on the hook and followed her to the kitchen, "could do with a cuppa."

"You shouldn't go spending money on my daughter," she chided, "it's not right."

"Jean, I have missed eight Christmases with my family," he touched her cheek, "I have a lot to thank you for, a present for Mary, something she wants and needs is not an extravagance. Indulge me, this year, at least."

"It's just .." she muttered.

"I know, I am your employer and she is your daughter but, as I have said before, we are a family ... and it's Christmas, goodwill to all men, housekeepers and housekeeper's daughters." He raised his eyebrows and grinned.

As she made the tea she was pleased with her choice of gift for him, more than a housekeeper should choose for her employer, but if he was going to spoil her daughter ...

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	12. Chapter 12

The tears were coursing down Mary's face as she lurched into the porch. The day had started out so well; the annual English writing and Art competitions were well underway at school and she had entered both. She had stayed behind to do some of her art work, in the quiet, just her and the teacher. The teacher had left her to attend a short staff meeting, but said if she needed him all she had to do was pop along to the staff room.

"It's going so well," he nodded to the portrait, "you have a real talent Mary, I hope your mother is prepared to nurture it."

"Oh yes, sir," she concentrated on mixing the colours she needed for the jacket, "and the two doctors."

"Good, so many parents don't see the value of art," he sighed.

"Dr Blake's wife was an artist," she told him, "her artworks are all over the house, I'm sure he wouldn't mind if you wanted to have a look."

"I might just do that, my dear," he opened the door, "now, don't overwork it."

"I won't."

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She put a tiny touch of ochre in Lucien's beard, just a highlight and stood back to survey her handiwork. She was justifiably pleased with it, her portrait of Dr Lucien Blake, in his usual blue grey suit - she had thought about painting him in uniform but she would have had to get him to sit for her to do that. This way she could sit and sketch him in the house and garden without him paying very much attention.

The door opened, "think you're so bloody good, don't you?" Edward Tyneman, who was supposed to be rewriting his English piece for the competition, stood in the doorway, sneering.

"Don't know what you mean," she carried on, not turning. He had been particularly obnoxious lately.

"Two submissions," he waved at the painting, "and who wants to see a picture of Lucien Blake?"

"I do, his father will," she huffed, "anyway, it's the competence it will be marked on not the subject."

"You know I'm going to win the English prize, don't you?"

"That remains to be seen," she turned to see his gloating face and his hand reach for the turpentine bottle on the side. "Put that down," she snapped, "only art students are supposed to be in here, after hours."

He raised his hand and she could see the weeks of work going up in smoke, or down in a sea of turpentine.

"Edward, no!"

"Common little bitches like you shouldn't even be in this school," his arm went back.

"I won my place fair and square!" she hissed back, remembering the joy in the house when she had passed the entry exam to Wendouree Grammar, "I don't have to be paid for."

The bottle flew towards the painting, she dropped the brush she held, leaving a stripe of ochre down her grey school dress, and leapt in front of it. The lid flew off the bottle the contents splashed over her head and dress and crashed to the floor. She screamed.

Edward ran down the corridor, screaming that Mary Beazley had gone mad and was throwing turps about.

In the art room Mary stumbled to the sink where brushes and palettes were washed and splashed handful after handful of cold water on her eyes.

"Mary!" the Deputy Head teacher rushed into the room and surveyed the damage. A broken bottle of turpentine lay on the floor, her painting was on its side on the floor but the most pressing thing was the young girl pouring water over her face.

"Why?" he asked, pulling her away.

"No, sir," she gulped, "you don't understand, I ..."

He handed her a cloth, "clean yourself off and go home, we'll deal with this tomorrow."

"Sir, please," she grabbed his arm, "it wasn't me, Edward threw it at me, he called me names ..."

"His father funds the prize, Mary," he grunted, "now, home."

She ran all the way home, not understanding why she wasn't believed, she was the one covered in turps, her dress was ruined and her eye hurt horribly. She could barely see when she got there and lurched into the house knocking the hall table over in her haste to get to the surgery and Uncle Lucien, ignoring the impulse to run and hide in her room.

She barged into the consulting room blindly, and was caught by Lucien before she fell to the floor. He could smell the turps.

"Jean!"

She was close behind her daughter but pulled up at the sight of her in his arms sobbing and smelling of the paint thinner.

"Bowl of cool water, from the kettle and the eye bath," he commanded, "then run her a bath."

"Doctor?"

"Now, Jean!"

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"What happened, chick?" he asked gently as he dealt with her eyes. One seemed to have avoided the spirits, but the other was red and looked very sore.

"Edward came into the art room," she sobbed, "while Mr Hills was in the staff room. He called me a nasty name, said people like me shouldn't be in that school, then he threw a full bottle of turps at me. It broke."

"Did you swallow any?" he continued, soothing and bathing.

"No," she sniffed, "least I don't think so, Uncle Lucien?..."

"Shh, pet," he lifted her up into his arms, "I'm going to take you to your mother for a bath and to have your hair washed, and I'm going to bring you up some milk to drink."

"My eye hurts," she snuffled into his jacket.

"I know, love," he pressed a kiss to her forehead, "it will get better, because your tears washed it, though why they didn't send for a doctor or take you to the hospital I don't know." This angered him as did the involvement of Patrick Tyneman's boy. He had come across Patrick in the course of his duties as police surgeon, still full of himself, still blustering about and getting in the way, wanting cases cleared up without proper investigation. He also knew that Edward had upset Li, earlier that year, before he came home, but Jean and Old Man Tyneman had dealt with that. Well he was going to deal with this.

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Jean was pacing the floor in the bathroom wondering why her daughter was covered in turps and paint. She was usually so careful when she painted.

"Ah, Jean, good," Lucien set Mary down on the chair, "now, let's get her into the bath, if Miss Mary doesn't mind her doctor being present," he stayed calm though he was seething underneath, but for Jean and Mary ... "then I want her to have some milk, just in case."

"Lucien, Mary ...?"

"Let's see to Mary, first," he touched her shoulder, "then we'll talk."

He helped her undress and lift Mary into the bath and left them to go and get the drink.

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As he warmed some milk on the stove the phone rang. It was the school, asking to speak to Mrs Beazley.

"Sorry, she's unavailable," he hummed, "can I help, it's Dr Lucien Blake, here."

He listened while the Head told Edward's version of events, as told to him by the Deputy, and that it would be better if Mary stayed away until after Christmas.

"Really," he hummed, "and may I ask how much turps is on young Edward? He may need hospital treatment."

"I er, he went home," the Head stammered.

"Well, Mary won't be well enough to attend school until next week," Lucien used his most officious tone, "but that won't stop her entries to the competition, will it." He emphasised the last two words and signed off.

"Bloody little brat," he muttered to himself.

"Huh, what's that?" Thomas shuffled through, "what happened, I heard Mary?"

"Edward Tyneman threw a bottle of turps at her," Lucien poured the warmed milk into a cup, "then blamed her."

Thomas could see his son was extremely angry but his first thought was for the girl who had become a granddaughter to him.

"Is she alright?"

"Frightened, her eye is sore," Lucien grumbled, "it could have been worse. She doesn't think she swallowed any but I'm giving her milk, just in case."

"Why would the stupid idiot do that?"

"He doesn't think people like Mary should go to the grammar school."

"She got in on her merits," Thomas huffed, "she doesn't have to be paid for, scholarship girl is our Mary, a lot brighter than that pompous little twit."

Lucien couldn't help but smile at his father's defence of the child, but he was going to get Edward to admit it was all his doing whatever his father may think.

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Having seen that Mary was calmer, bathed and in her pyjamas, Lucien told Jean he was going to see Edward.

"Can I have Mary's dress please?" he held out his hand.

"Lucien, please, don't make it worse," Jean sat with her arms round Mary.

"I want the truth from Edward, Jean," he huffed, "he can't go around thinking he can get away with hurting people just because he thinks they are beneath him."

"He was cross because I have, or had, two entries for the Christmas competitions," Mary whispered.

"What was he doing there?"

"He was re-writing his English entry," she sniffed, "I don't think it was going well, he's been there every night I have. His father funds the prizes, he thinks he is going to win."

Lucien sat on the bed and stroked her cheek, "there are always going to be people who think that money is the answer to everything, no thought of justice, or doing the right thing, they just throw money at the problem."

"What are you going to do, Uncle Lucien?" she turned her face to him and he could see how sore her eye still was. "Edward is always trying to get the scholarship students in trouble, especially those who aren't well off. He tripped Charlie George up so he wouldn't win the tennis cup, he sprained his ankle and couldn't finish the match, had to concede to him. Everybody saw it."

"I'm going to have a little word with young Master Tyneman, my dear," he patted her cheek, "point out how dangerous it is to fool about with volatile substances."

"Lucien!" Jean called from the bedroom, "pick Li up on your way back, she's having tea with Elizabeth."

"Will do," he called back, glad that she hadn't had to witness Mary's upset.

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"Dr Blake to see Master Edward, sir," the housekeeper stood at the door way to the dining room.

"Study," Patrick pushed his chair back, why was Blake interrupting his dinner?

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"Patrick," Lucien held out his hand, not wanting to start the conversation on the wrong foot, "I would like a word with Edward, to see if he has any after effects of the turps in school."

"What turps?" Patrick huffed, "boy's in his room, didn't want any dinner." He looked at the bundle in the doctor's hands, and wrinkled his nose at the now fading odour.

"Shall we let him tell us," Lucien smiled kindly, it looked like Edward had gone to hide.

Mindful that Edward could be 'difficult' in school he decided that it would probably be best if he at least let Blake see the boy, especially if he had been hurt.

Edward sloped down the stairs, still in his uniform and stood in the study, facing his father.

"What happened, Edward?" Patrick loomed over him.

"Er, Mary threw turps, in the art room," he mumbled, sure his father would be on his side.

"Let's have a look at you, Edward," Lucien said, kindly, "make sure you aren't adversely affected."

"No, I'm ok, she missed."

Lucien looked him up and down, there was an oily splash on his trouser leg, below the knee, but nothing else.

"What were you doing in the art room, boy?" Patrick grunted, "you were supposed to be doing your English entry, for the competition, "as I remember the art room is at the other end of the school."

"I think Edward has a skewed idea of the truth, don't you, Edward?" Lucien scowled down at him, "I think Edward threw the turps at Mary, to damage her painting," he held up the clothes, "these are Mary's clothes, from today. As you can see, and smell, they are covered in turps. Her eye is very sore, and I will have to wait to see if there is any permanent damage."

"Edward ..." his father's voice had a warning tone.

"She shouldn't be at our school, dad," he gulped, "she's common."

"She passed the entrance exam, Edward," Lucien pointed out, "she has every right to be there."

"Why is she allowed two entries in the competition? Nobody else is?" He stuck out his lower lip.

"English and art," Lucien confirmed when Patrick looked confused.

"Two different disciplines," Patrick glared, "different donors for the prize, I donate the English prize. All entries are unnamed when they are submitted, so nobody knows who has painted or written what."

"Handwriting?" Lucien raised his eyebrows.

"The typing pool at the Courier type everything," Patrick shrugged, "no names ..."

"... no pack drill," Lucien hummed.

"Everybody would know which her painting was," Edward persisted, "it's of you," he hissed at Lucien.

"Really?" Lucien's eyes widened, "goodness, I had no idea. She's always drawing, got some lovely sketches of dad. Well, who'd have thought ... anyway, lad, I think you need to come clean to the Head, who has taken your side of the events and excluded Mary until next year."

Patrick put his hand on Edward's shoulder and gripped it tight enough to make the boy squirm. Regardless of Mary's station in life, he liked Jean, she was pleasant when she spoke, professional in her work as housekeeper and secretary and was well thought of in town, in spite of everything that had happened in her life.

"Dad?" Edward looked up at him.

"Patrick, Edward?" Patrick's father, Michael wandered in, "what's going on? Blake." He nodded in the doctor's direction.

"It's alright, father," Patrick shooed him out, "I'll deal with this."

"He been up to no good, again?" he pointed his walking cane at his grandson. "Well?!"

"It would seem that Edward threw some turps in the art room and tried to blame Mary Beazley," Lucien stepped in knowing Michael would find out, one way or the other.

"Again, boy!" he leaned down and pushed close to him, "two more parents have complained to me that you are bullying the scholarship students."

"What?" Patrick gasped, "when?"

"Over the time they have been working on the annual prizes," Michael stood up, "apparently this excuse for a Tyneman thinks he will get the English prize regardless of the standard of his work. The Head believes him because they don't want to lose the money you provide for the English prize." He looked across at Lucien, "is Mary alright?"

"Sore, time will tell if there is any damage to the eye ..."

"That her uniform?"

Lucien looked at the bundle of 'rags' and nodded.

"The family will replace it, and she won't be bothered by this," he waved his hand at Edward, "again, he will be going to school in Melbourne, next year."

"Father!"

"Grandfather!"

"Somewhere they don't know your family," he huffed, "where you will be the same as everybody else. Can we all meet at school tomorrow, clear up this nonsense?"

"Er, yes, I suppose so," Lucien was trying to recover from Michael's intervention, he had expected just to deal with Patrick and have difficulty but it would seem not, Michael was far more reasonable and was under no illusion about his grandson.

"Right, I'll call Wentworth, let him know we will be there, ten o'clock?"

"Thank you, Mr Tyneman," Lucien held his hand out, "until tomorrow."

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There was an almighty row in the study after Lucien left. Michael blamed Patrick for spoiling him, Patrick blamed Susan for not being strong enough, she said her son was uncontrollable.

"These people are our bread and butter!" Michael shouted, "if they don't buy the paper we are out of a job, as are those who work for us! If they don't buy our shoes we don't have any money to fund school prizes or your lifestyle!"

Edward looked mutinous, Patrick growled and Susan cried. Michael wished Mary was his grandchild instead of Edward.

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Lucien drove back to the house, briefly forgetting Li and having to turn round, thinking on Michael's reaction. Jean had said he was the one to stop Edward bullying Li, and how he had threatened to send the boy to boarding school, now it seemed he was going to carry out that threat.

"What's that smell?" Li wrinkled her nose as she got into the car.

"Turps," Lucien pulled away, "Mary's uniform."

"Mama isn't going to be pleased."

"Edward threw it at her," Lucien sighed, "he's in trouble with his grandfather."

"Serves him right, he's horrible," Li shrugged her shoulders.

"He's going to school in Melbourne next year."

"Good, is Mary alright?"

"She will be, in time," Lucien hummed, "her eye will need looking at, I'm going to arrange for her to see a specialist to make sure there's no permanent damage."

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Mary slept, as best she could, with her mother that night, and while she did arrangements were made for her to see a specialist in Melbourne at the end of the week. Jean argued with Lucien, about the cost, surely he could treat her?

"I can, Jean," he held her hand in the studio when she left her daughter for a brief few minutes being read to by Li, "but I am not a specialist and I just want to make sure. Don't worry about the cost, or paying me back. Family, Jean, family." He kissed her forehead and she leant against him, suddenly very tired.

"Now," he stood there with his arms wrapped round her, "you need to eat, your dinner is still warm, Li will read to Mary for a while, and I'll go and check on her."

All through the night Lucien kept a check on Mary. Every hour he would go into the bedroom; sleeping in Mary's bed to be close; and check her pulse and breathing. If she was awake, which she often was, he would look into her eye, stroke her head and tell her not to worry. Sometimes Jean would let him think she was asleep, sometimes she would look up and smile softly and he would pat her shoulder.

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The Headmaster was monumentally embarrassed. He had taken Edward's story and believed him, the boy seemed terrified, he said.

"Terrified of being caught," Michael huffed.

Professor Wentworth looked across at Mary and her mother. The girl looked pale, there were dark circles round her eyes and the one affected by the turps was read and weeping. Jean kept her arms round her daughter, she too looked tired but she was smartly dressed and well made up. Dr Blake looked stern, anger lurking behind his blue eyes as he waited for the apology Mary deserved, from Edward and Wentworth. It took a long time coming, but it was there in the end. Edward stood stiff and balled his fists as he muttered a 'sorry'. Lucien didn't believe him for one minute and even Professor Wentworth wondered if he should have listened to more of the parents instead of brushing it off as jealousy of the Tyneman's wealth.

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"...and how does it feel now?" the consultant put his ophthalmoscope down and looked at the young girl sitting in front of him.

"It gets a little better each day," she whispered, "but it's still very sore, like having sand in it, or grit."

"Well, there has been some blistering, on the cornea," he looked at Lucien who nodded in agreement, "but it will repair on its own and your sight should not be affected in the long run. Now, warm, plain water eyebaths to soothe it, boiled water, Mrs Beazley," he smiled, "when you want. I should like to see you again, after Christmas, say, the twenty-ninth?"

"That will be fine," Lucien agreed, "we shall be here."

"Good, good," he nodded, "now, young lady," he turned back to Mary, "you go and have a lovely Christmas, eat lots of chocolate and cake and play silly games."

Mary giggled, and Jean smiled, it was the first time she had laughed since the incident.

With her arm linked through Lucien's on one side and the other holding her mother's hand Mary felt safe and loved. With sunglasses on she didn't see the grateful smiles her mother gave the doctor or the gentle nod he sent back, but she felt them, felt the atmosphere. She knew Uncle Lucien was paying for her treatment and she would, when she could draw and paint again, make something just for him.

Professor Wentworth had called to say the art exhibition was being held in the main hall in the school and Mary's painting was included, did they want to go and have a private viewing?

"It's the least I can do," he sighed, "Mary has such a talent for one so young, so Mr Hills tells me, and I would not have dreamed of excluding her work from the competition. I am very sorry for what happened, our deputy, Mr Manston has always pandered to the Tynemans, and it is he who is in charge of the prizes, but the art prize is donated by the gallery."

They said they would go after Mary's appointment with the specialist but would collect Thomas and Li first.

"I'm sure they would like to see your work, Mary," Lucien hugged her, "I certainly do."

"It probably got ruined," she sniffed, "I heard it fall, and I don't know how much turps ended up on it."

"I think most of it landed on you, sweetheart," Jean squeezed her hand, "have faith."

And so they all squeezed into the Riley, the three ladies on the back seat, Mary cuddled against her mother, wondering what kind of reception she would receive. She needn't have worried, some of her friends had found out about the private viewing and had asked permission to be there. Professor Wentworth had agreed providing they were on their best behaviour.

"Oh Mary," Sheila Grange hugged her, "I'm so glad you're alright, we've been very worried, Mr Hills said you got the stuff in your eyes."

"Yes, but the consultant thinks I should be able to see properly, in time," Mary hugged her friend back, "Dr Blake has been treating me."

Sheila smiled shyly at Dr Lucien Blake, he was a lot better looking than her doctor, she wondered if she could persuade her mother to change.

"Who put Mary's painting up?" Jean asked, all they knew was it had been put on exhibition.

"We all went to see Mr Hills," another girl, Christine Evans, stepped in and took Mary's hand, "we didn't do anything to the painting but there is a tiny bit in one corner that caught the turps."

"We told him that if he didn't put your painting in the show then we weren't going to let ours go in either, not that any of ours are as good," Sheila folded her arms, "which would have left very little."

"There was no need for that, Sheila,," Mary reached out and touched her arm.

"Huh, says you," Christine huffed, "we're all in this together, remember. We made a pledge, that we would all try to get into art college, because if we all try then our parents will have a bigger battle on their hands."

Lucien laughed, so did Thomas, "so young to be thinking of college," Lucien kissed Mary's head, "did you think your mother would stop you, Mary?"

"No," Mary smiled, "but Sheila's and Christine's parents want them to have a career or a job that will make them a living. I can make and sell cards, to earn a bit ..."

"... and artists only make money when they're dead," Jean laughed, "I'd rather you were happy, Mary, and your art makes you happy." She thought she would teach her to type, just in case.

"Thanks, mum," Mary sighed, "suppose I'd better go in and survey the damage."

"I'm sure it will be fine," Thomas patted her arm, "and I'd like to see these young ladies' work."

"They're very good, gran'pa," she assured him.

"Well, shall we?" he stepped in front and headed into the hall.

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There were around a dozen or so art works on display, paintings and some sculpture. Apart from Mary and her two friends most of the other exhibitors were in the upper school. There was some good and not so good, but, Lucien mused to himself, they were school children. If he was going to be critical the still life of peaches and a jug of water lacked perspective, and a landscape was a bit flat, but, he reasoned, to himself, art was a subjective thing and one man did not have to like what another man did. Jean touched his arm and pointed. Mary was looking closely at the corner of a painting, her painting.

"It's rather good, isn't it?" she questioned her judgement, to her it was a near perfect representation of the younger doctor, "or am I biased."

"You and me, both," he leant down and whispered in her ear, "I'm impressed." Thomas had stumped up to her and touched her hand.

"I hope you are going to bring that home," he whispered, "I would like it framed and in the studio."

"Don't be silly, gran'pa," she hissed, "I haven't finished it."

"Oh yes you have, dear girl," he smiled, "it's Lucien through and through, that little curl at the back of his neck, just when his hair needs trimming, don't you dare change a thing."

The painting showed a near profile of Lucien, staring into the distance, obviously thinking of something, but he was calm, in the picture, soft.

Jean studied it and thought that she wouldn't mind it in her bedroom, staring over her bed. But, "darling," she squeezed Mary's arm, " it is perfect, grandpa is quite right."

Lucien was speechless, he thought he remembered when she had sketched this, it was after selling the Randall farm, he was thinking what it meant for Jean, did it change who she was?

"Mother would have been so proud of you," he muttered, "even if you aren't a Blake, genetically, or an Etienne, I'm speechless."

"Well, that's a first," Jean teased.

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"You do know you could have had Edward charged with assault, don't you?" Matthew hummed over a cup of tea. He had called in to see how his adopted niece was doing and to speak to Jean about Christmas. He had been invited, apparently he wasn't supposed to spend Christmas alone, but ...

"If the damage had been permanent you would have been arresting me," Jean huffed, "how dare he consider himself above her in school."

"Alright, Jean" he reached over and touched her hand, "I agree, he's too much like Patrick for my money, a visit from us might have given him the fright he needs."

"You have better things to do, Matthew," she smiled, "but, thank you."

"How is she?"

"Pretty well, considering," she nodded, "in school, her friends are making sure she doesn't trip or fall, and helping her write her work. The eye is much better, she rarely has any eye baths, but, we are going to see the consultant after the holiday."

"Do you need any help with that?" he knew how proud she was, how she wouldn't ask ...

"Lucien insisted on seeing to it," she blushed, a little, "he says we are a family."

"Sounds good to me, that's the Lucien I remember," he sipped the tea. "About Christmas, Jean ... it's just that ... well..."

"If you have another invitation that's fine, Matthew," she smiled, "we just thought it would be nice to have you here."

"It's not that," it was his turn to blush, properly blush, "well I asked Dr Harvey to join me, she would be on her own as well, and ..."

"Would you like to extend the invitation to her," she looked into his eyes, she couldn't remember the last time Matthew Lawson had stepped out with a girl, "she would be most welcome."

"That's very kind of you, Jean, but ..." he heaved a sigh, "she's different, shy, awkward, think that's why I like her."

"Why don't you bring her round for a cuppa, before the day," Jean suggested, pushing a plate of shortbread towards him, "I haven't met her, but Lucien and Thomas both hold her in high regard."

"Right," he muttered.

"I don't think you have competition," she laughed.

"Really, only ..."

Jean smiled and thought back to the night they had gone to the art exhibition - when all had gone to bed, except her and Lucien. He had taken her hand and pulled her towards him, and they had danced a slow dance to the soft music from the radiogram. They hadn't spoken, he had just held her and at the end of the song, kissed her ever so softly on the cheek, and bade her goodnight.

"Just ask her if she would like to come over, or perhaps ... yes, well, drop in for a cuppa."

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"You finished for today?" Senior Sergeant, soon to be Inspector, Lawson poked his nose into the morgue.

"Just about," Dr Alice Harvey pushed the tray of clean instruments to the back of the counter, "why?"

"Thought I'd pop up to see Mary," he had worked out a way to get her to meet Jean, "before I drop you off, at your boarding house."

"Oh, well, alright," she sighed, she wasn't confident in strange company, and she had been very surprised when the police officer had shown an interest in her, as a person.

"Jean won't bite, you know," he stood waiting for her to change out of her white coat into her duster coat, "I've known her nearly all my life, not a judgemental bone in her body."

"Hm .."

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Indeed Jean didn't bite, but while Matthew chatted with Mary at the table, she found out all she needed to know about Alice Harvey. How she had studied classics as well as medicine at university, how her family weren't impressed and that she lived in a local boarding house, which, in Dr Harvey's words,

"gives me a place to sleep and somewhere to store my things." Jean sensed there was more to her than met the eye.

"Are you going home for Christmas?" she asked, turning the roast over, and putting it back into the oven to finish cooking.

"No!" she gasped, "heavens, why would I do that?"

"To be with your family," Jean smiled.

"What a dreadful thought," Alice sipped her tea and nibbled the excellent shortbread.

"Oh, well, would you like to join us?" Jean sat down to peel the vegetables, "you can stay for dinner tonight, too, if you'd like to."

Matthew had surreptitiously been listening to the conversation, and thought now was a good time to step in.

"Smells good, Jean, what's on the menu tonight?" He drew a cup towards him and poured himself a cup.

"Roast pork, Matthew," she didn't look up, "apple sauce, veggies ..."

"Stop, my mouth is watering," he laughed, "I guess I'll do with a pasty."

"Oh no you won't, Matthew Lawson," Jean huffed, "you will sit down with us to a proper dinner, your mother would be horrified." She turned and looked at Alice, "his mother always insisted on a proper dinner, said he would fade away to nothing."

"Hello, Matthew," Lucien strode into the kitchen, "and Alice, well, what a lovely surprise, should we set extra places tonight, Mrs Beazley?"

"I think Dr Harvey is the only one who needs persuading, doctor," she laughed.

"Tosh!" he huffed, "of course you're staying," he looked at Matthew who had an almost grateful look on his face.

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Alice was still stunned as they left the house, she had effectively been railroaded into a family meal with a colleague and people she barely knew. And yet, it felt right. Nobody had asked her questions about her family, why she had come to Ballarat, or if she had any romantic entanglements. They had talked about art, which she knew nothing about but was content to listen to, the current case and stories in the Courier.

"Sorry," Matthew felt he should apologise, "but ... well Jean feeds anyone who arrives at the house."

She considered this before answering.

"Right," she took a breath, "so, if I drop by to see Dr Blake, I should expect tea and biscuits?"

"And if you time it right, dinner," he grinned.

They drove on in silence until Matthew pulled up outside her boarding house.

"So," he turned to look at her, "about Christmas ..."

"Um, I don't know," she answered, honestly, "they seem nice people, but ... oh, Matthew, it's a long time since I had a family Christmas dinner that didn't involve fists and arguments ... I don't want to get into that, again."

"There is absolutely no chance of that," he took her hand, "that house is a haven of calm, I don't know what Jean does but not even Lucien is angry there, and he has a lot to be angry about. If you find it a bit much you can always go and sit in the garden or the sun room, Jean won't mind."

"You know her well," she observed.

"I've known her most of our lives," he admitted looking out of the window and far away, "when she was courting Christopher, before Mary was born. I, we have always been friends, I was too scared to try my hand with her, and then ... well, you know, I don't think it would have worked; but I will defend her to my last breath," he puffed out his chest, "and you," he added, softly.

She blushed and said she would give it some thought.

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"She's interesting," Jean answered Lucien's unasked question on her opinion of Alice Harvey, "lonely, I think, but shy. There again, if her past is half as bad as I got the impression it was it doesn't surprise me that she comes over as stand-offish."

"Matthew's sweet on her, isn't he?" he swirled his whisky round.

"Oh yes," she grinned, "and I'm glad, he's always been a bit nervous around girls, but I think he's going to have to work for her."

'Know how he feels,' Lucien thought.


	13. Chapter 13

I've ummed and ahhed about this chapter but I'm going to post it anyway. It's taken a time to write because my free/writing time is limited at this time of year.

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The Christmas preparations continued. The pile of gifts under the tree in the studio grew higher; Jean caught Lucien lifting the odd one and shaking it to see if he could ascertain the contents.

"Really, Lucien," Jean laughed, "you are worse than the children."

"Maman would never let the parcels be put under the tree until I was in bed on Christmas Eve," he pouted.

"I wonder why not?" she rolled her eyes.

"I think she was trying to keep me believing in Father Christmas," he grinned, but there was a hint of sadness behind his eyes.

"As parents, we all do that, try to recapture the magic we knew as children," she smiled, though there had been precious little magic when she was a child. She did get gifts, but they were usually a new dress, made by her mother, or something practical. She would not admit that the one from him to her; oh yes, she had looked at labels; intrigued her.

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The school was due to finish for the year. There was a concert in which the choir would sing and solo musicians perform, the good and the just passable. Mary had not wanted to play, after the debacle with Edward but Li had persuaded her that he should not win.

"You've practised too hard, Mary," she sat with her, turning pages as she played, "why let him spoil it? And think of gran'papa, he loves talking about your playing ... and papa."

"I suppose so," she mused, "and mum has made me a new dress."

Jean had finished the dress, light and pretty, pale blue cotton scattered with tiny white daisies. The neck was boat neck shape but scallop-edged, as were the short sleeves which were 'grown' off the shoulder. The bodice was fitted and the skirt full and 'ballerina' length. The underskirt was net and a satin sash finished off the waist.

Mary thought about all the work Jean had put into the dress, it would be churlish to pull out of the concert after all that effort, and the cost of the satin for the sash and net for the underskirt. She would have been quite shocked to find Lucien had insisted on paying for the fabric after Jean had made a passing remark that she had seen some pretty blue cotton.

"Jean," he muttered to her as they washed up one evening, "I don't know much about dressmaking, or ladies fashion ..."

She looked at him, pausing with a plate in her hand, "I wouldn't expect you to, doctor, you're a man."

".. huh," he huffed at the tease, "I was just going to say that I thought ladies went for something a little more, er, luxurious than cotton, for an evening dress.

"She's playing the piano in the school concert, Lucien," Jean huffed, "not the theatre. And ... I'm a housekeeper, Lucien," she sighed, "not Susan Tyneman."

"You are better than her," he smiled, "by miles, and Mary is better than Edward. What are the other girls wearing? I'll bet some of them will have dresses made in Melbourne, but you're a good seamstress, you make a lot of your own things and Li's clothes, I don't think we could have got nicer if things had been different. More expensive, but not as nice."

She eyed him up and down. He never said anything about the girls' clothes save that he noticed if they wore something new, but that was probably because he had seen the machine in use, now, perhaps he did notice, and appreciated what he saw, though the compliment was clumsy.

So Jean had agreed to add the little extra touches to the dress, and, initially Mary was delighted. Her delight had waned somewhat after the turpentine incident and turned into worry that her mother had gone to so much trouble for nothing, and she didn't know how to tell her, so she didn't.

As Mary continued to play the piece she had chosen Jean had no idea of the inner turmoil in her daughter. She would hum along from the kitchen and praise her playing and say how much she was looking forward to the evening.

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Mary flopped down onto the couch in the studio and sighed. It had gone remarkably well. In spite of a small stumble when she played the first few notes, her performance had been flawless, at least that's what Uncle Lucien and Gran'pa had told her. She felt they were just being kind, she had played it better, but the applause was nice and the congratulations from her friends gave her a nice warm feeling.

"Come on, Miss," Lucien was saying to Li, who was almost asleep on her feet, "bed."

"Can't I stay up a little longer," so tired she slurred like a drunk.

"Another time, Li, sweetheart," he guided her up the stairs, followed by Jean, "now mama will help you get into bed, term is over, you can perhaps stay up a little later during the holidays." He was prepared to indulge her as only a parent could.

Jean smiled and agreed as she took over the task of putting Li into her pyjamas and then letting Lucien tuck her into bed and kiss her goodnight.

"Thank you, Jean," Lucien whispered as they went back downstairs to join Mary and Thomas.

"What for?" she stopped and turned to look at him.

"For helping her to grow into such a lovely young lady," he smiled, "for everything you do for all of us."

"Pshaw," she laughed softly, "she's as much a daughter to me as Mary is, and your father has been so very kind to me."

He took her hand and kissed it, "I hope I can be as kind."

She smiled, "you can pour me a sherry, for starters."

"Done," he indicated she precede him down the stairs.

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Thomas had gone to bed leaving Mary to get herself a drink of milk from the kitchen.

"You were right," Lucien mused as he handed her her sherry, "the cotton was the best choice."

"Becoming quite the expert now, aren't we, doctor?" she teased.

He reddened, "I just meant she looked lovely," he looked into his glass for the right thing to say, but it wasn't there.

"Thank you for coming to watch her," Jean smiled, hastily trying to lessen his embarrassment, "it means a lot to her, and me."

"Wouldn't have missed it for the world," he raised his glass, "she is a very talented young lady, I wonder where she gets it from?"

"I have no idea, her father couldn't sing in tune, never mind play an instrument, not that either of us got the chance to learn," she sighed. "My mother said it was a waste of money, though she did allow me to sing in the school choir, and dad would whistle about the farm."

"A throw-back, then," he smiled, "one of your antecedents was a virtuoso on the piano, perhaps?"

"I never knew my grandparents," she sipped the sherry, "well, not enough, really. Mum's mother died well before I was born and she grew up looking after their farm and her sister before marrying dad. His parents came to see us occasionally but mum didn't like them telling her how to raise me. I barely remember them."

"I take it ..."

"Aha," she nodded, "they sent me and Christopher a few pounds when we married, but he ... well, it didn't go far."

"Did your father ...?" he stopped, "sorry Jean," he sat down, "I'm prying, you don 't have to tell me anything."

"It's only natural you should know who is in your house, Lucien," she smiled, it had been years since she had thought about her grandparents.

"Mum?" Mary appeared at the door holding a glass of milk.

"Sweetheart," Jean held her hand out to her, "come and sit down for a while, if you want to."

"No, s'ok," Mary smiled, "I just wanted to say goodnight, and thank you both, for coming to the concert."

"It was my ..."

"It was our ..."

"...pleasure," they both finished at the same time.

"You were wonderful, Mary," Jean smiled, "I am so proud of you."

"You should be proud of yourself," Lucien added, "I was most impressed."

"Thank you, Uncle Lucien," she yawned, "it's a nice piece to play."

They watched her drag her tired body towards the stairs, relief obvious.

Jean drew her brows together, worry quite evident to Lucien.

"I suppose it's been quite a term for her," he mused, "the break will do her good."

"Yes," she leant back on the couch, "I don't think she wanted to take part, after that, really ..."

"She did it for you," he noted, "she would never want to disappoint you."

"She never has," Jean huffed, "I couldn't have wished for better daughters. Better than I ever was."

"I've a feeling you didn't want to be caged, to be trapped in the world you grew up in, I understand, I never wanted that, not after ..." he stared into space for a few moments, "... but life deals us the hand it does, and we have to make the best of it. Perhaps one day you can spread your wings, but don't fly off too soon, Jean."

"While I would have liked to see more of the world, I am settled here, this is my home, dreams are not for the likes of me, Lucien."

He would have liked to tell her he would take her round the world anytime she wanted, but felt it was not what she wanted to hear, not yet, but one day ... one day he would take her where ever she wanted to go.

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Newly come to Ballarat and with a daughter in the same class as Mary, Gloria Hammond thought herself above the people of a town not in the same league as Sydney. No matter she had left because her husband had been found guilty of fraud and embezzled funds from his factory and was now in prison, she was better than all of them, particularly a divorced housekeeper and her daughter.

When Sylvia had come home and told her all about the girls, and boys, at her new school she had had made it her business to find out all she could. Sylvia had been particularly taken with a Mary Beazley, who had shown her round, where things were and was a fellow pianist. Sylvia wasn't quite as good as Mary but she had played well at the concert and Mary had been the first to congratulate her.

Mrs Hammond looked to the Tynemans and those of the same social level to ingratiate herself into Ballarat society, but her airs and graces had grated on even Susan Tyneman, and she found she was not invited to the gatherings she thought were her right.

Jean was just getting a few last minute items in town, and had been stopped by Sheila's mother. Mrs Grange had wanted to tell her how much she enjoyed Mary's piano playing at the concert and to ask if she would accompany Sheila next time, as she felt more comfortable singing with a friend rather than her rather stiff music teacher.

"You must be so proud of her," Mrs Grange smiled, genuinely happy for her, "Mary and Shelia have been friends for such a long time, partners in crime I say," she laughed, "I hope it continues."

"So do I," Jean agreed, "Sheila was so helpful after the incident. It helped Mary regain her confidence."

"I hear the Tyneman boy is going to school in Melbourne, next year," Mrs Grange noted, "perhaps a good boarding school will knock some sense into him."

"We can only hope," Jean agreed.

Mrs Hammond had seen and heard everything and didn't like the way Sheila's mother had spoken to a housekeeper, as an equal. Housekeepers should know their place. She watched Jean head off into the newsagent's and decided when she came out she would have a word with her, about girls from the wrong side of the tracks trying to put themselves above her daughter; who in every way, in her opinion, was far above Mary Beazley; who wore a cotton dress too.

"I want your daughter to stay away from mine," she fell into step with Jean when she came out of the shop.

Jean stopped and turned, "sorry?"

"My daughter doesn't need to associate with the likes of you," she tossed her head and sniffed.

"I'm sorry, do I know you?" Jean was completely nonplussed that a stranger should approach her in such a manner.

"Gloria Hammond, and no, you don't know me, we move in different circles."

Jean mentally went through conversations with Mary, about new pupils, and could only come up with Sylvia.

"Sylvia, your daughter is Sylvia," Jean smiled, "Mary told me she was showing her around, and that they practiced the piano together." She frowned in thought, "ah, yes, the McDowell, To a Wild Rose? such a pretty piece."

"Huh! Like you would know," she sneered.

"Actually, I do," Jean took a deep breath, "my employer, Dr Blake, is a talented musician himself, and we listen to music all the time."

"You should keep to your station, _Mrs_ Beazley," she poked her thin finger into Jean's shoulder, "classical music is not for the likes of you."

"Dr Blake says classical music is for everybody," Jean winced.

"Keep your little, bastard daughter away from my Sylvia," the woman hissed.

"Jean! Jean!" Dr Harvey called over, for once seeing something wasn't right, "I was wondering ..." what she wasn't sure, but she felt she should do something.

Mrs Hammond turned sharply away, catching her thin finger in Jean's silver cross that she habitually wore, and tore it from her throat sending it flying through the air into the back of a passing ute.

"No!" Jean put her hand to her throat as if she could hold it in place, but she was too late, the cross was gone.

Gloria Hammond strode off, a smirk on her face while Alice went to her new, and really only, female friend.

"What was all that about?" she asked, "who is she?"

"One of the mothers from the Grammar School," Jean gasped, "her daughter is Mary's friend."

"Oh," Dr Harvey hummed, confused, "are you alright?"

"My cross," she put her hand to her throat again, "I've had it all my life, dad gave it to me ... my baptism," she sniffed, holding back the tears.

"Did you drive down," Alice murmured, "I can drive you back, if you like?"

Jean had soon realised that personal interactions were not easy for Dr Harvey, she sometimes seemed closed off from the idea of family, though she had, eventually, agreed to join them for Christmas day. Jean was under no illusion that Matthew had gently persuaded her.

"Thank you, doctor," she whispered, "I did walk, Lucien has the car."

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Lucien drew onto the drive and was surprised to see Dr Harvey's little old Austin Seven parked neatly in front of the garage and a police car next to it.

He dashed in, concerned that something had happened to his odd little family.

"Jean! Dad!" he shouted down the hall, "what ..?" he pulled up short at the sight of Jean and Alice Harvey sitting at the table in the kitchen, drinking tea with Matthew and Thomas. Jean had the remnants of tears on her face and the first aid kit was in front of Alice.

"It's nothing, Lucien," Jean inhaled, "a petty argument, that's all. I'm fine."

"A woman attacked Jean," Alice interrupted, "she ... well, I suppose she did, she caught the chain round Jean's neck, it broke and flew into a ute, um ... oh, she scratched Jean's chest, but it's alright, just a bit sore." She exhaled, rarely did Alice Harvey say too much, just the basics, the facts.

Lucien stepped round the table to look but Jean pulled her blouse closed to hide the angry red mark. She raised her eyebrows and gave him a look that told him he was not to worry, just now, perhaps later, when she had recovered her composure.

"Who?" he asked, his voice softening, "who would do this?" He couldn't imagine Jean upsetting anyone to the extent they would attack her, in the street.

"Mrs Hammond, she's new to Ballarat, her daughter is a friend of Mary's," Jean lowered her voice in case her daughter was listening.

"Well, if Mary is friends with her daughter," Lucien was confused and ran his hand over his head, "why would she attack you?"

"I think it has something to do with the concert," Jean had had time to think about the encounter, "that Mary is ... well not of the appropriate social class." Jean slumped.

"Snob ..." Lucien huffed and sat next to her.

"What?"

"Snob, thinks she's above everyone else, superior," he smiled and touched her hand, she withdrew it quickly and looked towards Matthew who hadn't noticed.

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Jean was able to ignore the loss of her cross over dinner, everyone chipped in to help, even Alice ... well, she laid the table. Everybody sensed Jean didn't want to talk about the incident, but Lucien couldn't help but focus on the lack of the tiny silver cross her was so used to seeing around her neck. He knew she was closer to her father than her mother and the cross had been the last link to him and while she tried to put a brave face on it, she was clearly upset. Now she was so busy eating and talking at the table he could see the angry red mark just under her left collar bone, where Mrs Hammond had poked and scratched her. What on earth had provoked her to do such a thing, to someone she didn't know? Even Susan Tyneman and her circle were polite to Jean. He wondered how she would feel if he bought her a new cross for Christmas, something small and relatively simple in design. He decided to look in the jeweller's window the following day.

Mary wondered if she should stay away from Sylvia, when they returned to school and asked her mother this very question at the table.

"No, Mary," Jean smiled, "she is your friend, and I think you are both able to make your own minds up. Besides, it might upset Sylvia and I'm not having her mother pin that on you."

"Where did they come from?" Lucien asked, "are they local?"

"No, Sydney," Mary smiled, "Sylvia says her father disappeared, he'd had some bother at work," she continued, "Sylvia doesn't know where he is."

Matthew looked at Lucien and nodded, just enough to let him know he would look into it. After all, he could easily report the issue Jean had had and say he was looking into whether or not Mrs Gloria Hammond was known for such behaviour.

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"Alice cleaned it up, Lucien," Jean sighed at his constant attention, "there's no need to bother."

"Just want to make sure," he sat opposite her in the studio, "it looked quite red at dinner."

Jean flushed at the thought he was staring at her breast over the meal and frowned.

"Sorry," he held his hands up, "I didn't mean to stare, I was just concerned. She must have long nails, to leave that much of a mark."

"Not the kind of hands that do a lot of washing up," Jean shrugged, "long and painted bright red."

"Your hands are soft, for someone who does a lot of household chores," he took one and held it softly, "and you paint your nails."

"But mine aren't as long as hers," Jean didn't remove her hand from his, "they break before I can get them there."

"Talons then?" he grinned.

"A good description," she agreed.

"The cross, Jean ..."

"Dad gave it to me, when I was baptised," she bit her lip, "I've worn it all my life. I only took it off at night, or to clean it. I shall miss it."

"I'm sorry, Jean," he reached over to stroke her cheek, "if there was anything I could do ..."

"Not even you, Lucien, though it is sweet of you to think so."

His hand was warm as it lay against her cheek and she leant very slightly into it, still standing on the precipice, not daring to let herself fall, to give in to what her heart told her was possible - to love and be loved by him.

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He watched her head up the stairs holding back the urge to run up and take her in his arms and tell her everything would be fine, that he would find a way to make everything alright - that he was falling in love with her - had fallen in love with her. A different love to that he had for Mei Lin, slower to take the space in his heart and fill it so full sometimes he thought it would burst. She was more independent, stronger, yet vulnerable, easy to talk to, clever, very clever, gave as good as she got, when he teased her she teased him back. There was an ease in their relationship that for all the social conventions should not be there.

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Matthew put down the phone and grunted. His contact in Sydney had done the digging he had asked for and come up with the reason for Daniel Hammond to be missing. That Gloria Hammond should think herself above Jean Beazley was completely unacceptable. Jean had never, to his knowledge, broken the law, stolen money from Thomas, or fiddled the accounts. She didn't run from the shame of becoming pregnant outside the bonds of marriage or the stigma of being a divorcee, no, Jean was better than Mrs Hammond and he was going to let her know he knew the truth and he was going to tell Jean. He might even tell Alice, she was known to have a pithy put down on occasion and could deploy what was known as the 'Death Stare', at times - Lucien had been on the receiving end frequently!

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"Really?" Alice's eyebrows hit her hairline when Matthew caught her down in the morgue and passed on the information, "well, what a damn cheek! If it was me I'd have kept myself pretty much to myself."

"Yes, well," Matthew smiled, thinking she had done that since she had come to Ballarat, "it would seem that she has profited from her husband's ill gotten gains. She lives in a nice little house, drives a newish car and employs someone to come in and clean for her."

"Matthew," Alice stopped working on the body on the table, "do you think her money is what her husband embezzled? Only if he is in prison there is no income, surely - unless she is independently wealthy."

"It's finding out though," he slumped onto a stool and folded his arms. "It's quite obvious the woman has never done a stroke of work in her life, or if she did she married up ..."

"Factory girl, marries the boss?"

"Were you Sherlock Holmes in a previous life?" he teased.

"Off you go, Watson," she grinned, "go and do your job, and I'll do mine."

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Alice, it would appear, had hit the nail on the head, Gloria Simpson had fluttered her eyelashes at Daniel Hammond when she took him his tea each day. She quickly learned how he liked his morning cuppa and which were his favourite biscuits. He had fallen for her charms, her pretty blue eyes and peroxide blonde hair, and, reader, he married her.

Gloria soon persuaded her husband to push for promotion, and they had eventually set up home in one of the smarter areas of Sydney. She enjoyed the status that came with being married to a senior accountant, but wanted more. She had extravagant habits, shopping at the most exclusive dress designers, insisting their daughter, when she was born, had a nanny, a wet nurse, and was signed up for the best school in the city. These habits cost Daniel and he struggled to keep up with the bills. He was bemoaning the fact one evening, and had brought work home with him, which Gloria took an unnatural interest in. A gifted mathematician, she soon found a way to do some creative accounting. Small amounts syphoned off into an apparent company account, whose signatories were herself and Daniel.

Daniel began to get greedy. Not content with fuelling his wife's extravagant lifestyle he had developed a liking for horse-racing. The trouble was, he wasn't much good at picking a winner and soon he was syphoning much larger amounts than Gloria expected him to. She knew just how much they could get away with and the larger amounts began to be noticed. In time, he was caught, but ever the loyal, or as Alice termed it, the stupidly in love, husband, he didn't implicate his wife in any of the embezzlement.

And so, after seeing him sent to prison, Gloria had sold their rather opulent home, sacked the housekeeper for some minor misdemeanour and headed for a smaller town, in another state where she could re-invent herself as a deserted wife.

But she still had grand ideas. If she had retreated to a quieter life, sent her daughter to school and contented herself with a couple of charitable works, she would have got away with it, but she didn't. She strove to set herself up as a well to do, well connected lady and it was her downfall.

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Somehow Family Welfare got hold of the information and deemed her an unfit mother. They had managed, with a certain newly appointed Police Inspector's help, to find the sacked housekeeper, who had told them of Mrs Hammond's treatment of her daughter. That she rapped her knuckles with a ruler if she played a wrong note on the piano, tied her plaits far too tight and drilled her in maths and French verbs. She attended elocution and deportment lessons and was dressed in the finest clothes that she wasn't allowed to get dirty or creased.

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The investigation dug deeper; between the Ballarat force and Darlinghurst they uncovered the truth of Gloria's wealth, that she was living off the fraudulently gained money and she was summoned to the station to be questioned. The Darlinghurst force had been unable to find the money because as soon as Daniel had been arrested she had emptied the account and put it elsewhere together with the profit from selling the house.

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Sylvia sat at home and waited. The cleaner came in and did what she was employed to do, but on seeing the child alone had stayed a little longer and made her a meal to tide her over. Family Welfare came over, at the request of the police, and told her she would be taken to a place of safety for the night.

"Can I just speak to my friend?" she hesitated, "only we are supposed to be meeting tomorrow ..." she and Mary had vowed to meet up in spite of Mrs Hammond's express insistence that she distance herself from Mary.

"Five minutes," the Welfare officer snipped.

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"What? No!" Mary gasped, "can't you come here?"

"Oh, I don't think so," Sylvia sighed, "I'm to go to a place of safety, whatever that is. I've no idea where mother is, except she was taken by the police this morning. Oh Mary ..." she burst into tears, "what's going on?"

"Hang on, I'll get mum," Mary put the receiver down and went to find Jean, who was in the sunroom tending her begonias.

"I don't know, mum," she shook her head when Jean asked her what was going on, "only Sylvia is upset. Can't she come here, at least for the night? Gran'pa and Uncle Lucien are respected members of the community, that's what you keep telling us."

Jean picked the receiver up, asked Sylvia to put the Officer on and shooed Mary out of the kitchen while she spoke. She knew that Sylvia would be taken to Mount Clair, the orphanage there, that was run by nuns. It wasn't unpleasant, just a bit cold, emotionally lacking.

"Well," she hummed, "it's so close to Christmas, I expect they are rather busy there, we would be only too happy to have her stay with us. She and Mary are such good friends."

"Right, well," the officer huffed, "I suppose, with Dr Blake being a police surgeon ..." the paperwork would be easier. The sister who ran the orphanage was old and crabby, read each line of the agreement at least twice, if not more, and asked too many questions.

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"Mary," Jean went to find her daughter, which was not hard, she was sitting in the living room, trying not to listen, "go and make up the bed in the little bedroom, Sylvia can sleep in there."

Mary leapt up and flung her arms round Jean, "Mum!" she cried, "thank you, it will be so much nicer than any children's home."

"Hm," Jean huffed with a smile, "I'll go and fetch her, I need to sign some papers, I expect."

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Sylvia had packed a suitcase, as instructed by the Welfare officer, and was sitting in the living room patiently waiting for Jean. Mary had told her much about her life and living with the doctors and Li, growing up without a father but with someone who was better than any father she could have wished for. She thought she was looking forward to staying with ordinary people. Her parents had bickered, music was a chore, clothes were a bore - she wanted to wear simple skirts and blouses lovingly made by her mother, like Mary did. She had changed into the least expensive outfit she could find, a tailored skirt and blouse. She had packed her pretty cotton pyjamas, plainest dresses and cardigans, underwear and socks. It was not because she didn't want to embarrass Mrs Beazley, more because she felt uncomfortable in them.

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"Everything will be alright," Jean soothed as they pulled away from the house, "things have a way of working out."

"I just don't understand," Sylvia sniffed, "they said father is in prison, and with the police taking mother away ... what's going on, Mrs Beazley?"

"I'm not really sure, Sylvia," Jean mused, "but don't think too badly of her, she only wanted what she thought was best for you."

"She didn't really, Mrs Beazley," Sylvia was openly crying now, "she wanted what was best for her. She showed me off, with my piano playing, and I'm not that good, dragging me to the theatre for some clever play that she didn't understand but all her toffee-nosed friends talked about. I preferred the movies or a book."

"Well," Jean hummed, "we have the radio on and Dr Blake plays his records, and we read ... we make our own entertainment. I hope that's alright for you."

"It sounds perfect."

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She sat on the bed and looked around the small room. It was painted cream, with flowered curtains at the window, and a rag rug by the bed. There was a green eiderdown on the bed with a figured pattern of roses and two clean, but plain, white towels on the end of it.

"There's hangers in the wardrobe," Mary was saying, "and plenty of room in the drawers. You can put your toothbrush in the bathroom, there's a mug, and me and Li are just down the hall."

"It's lovely," Sylvia whispered, "so cosy."

"It's nothing special, just the guest room," Mary shrugged.

"All the same, it is lovely."

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"I haven't told her anything," Jean sat with Lucien and Thomas in the study, "but I have dragged a temporary fostering order out of Family Welfare. That is alright, isn't it?"

"She needs to be safe, and comfortable," Thomas smiled, "and she will be here. I don't mind, do you, son?"

"Absolutely not," Lucien huffed, "I would never have thought of it, but a family home is going to be better for her. She's going to need help getting through the next few days, and who wants to spend Christmas in an Orphanage? Gloria is going to be kept in custody, Matthew is worried she will do a runner."

"So, Sylvia is here for Christmas, then." Jean stood up, "I've dinner to get on, why don't you two go and make her welcome. She's with our girls in the garden."

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Sylvia was embarrassed, touched and apologetic in that order when Lucien and Thomas welcomed her. Lucien praised her piano playing; she blushed; saying she was nowhere as good as Mary. Thomas said it was lovely to have the house so full of young people and told her she must treat the place as her home.

Jean called them in for dinner. She noticed Sylvia seemed more relaxed now, though she hung back until everybody else had entered the kitchen. The kitchen, not where she usually ate, she and her mother always ate off the best china in the small dining room, this felt more like family, warmer.

"It's a cold meat and salad meal," Jean smiled, "too warm for a roast or a stew."

"It looks lovely, Mrs Beazley," Sylvia dried her hands, "nice and fresh."

"Thank you, dear," Jean smiled back then turned to Lucien who was pinching a piece of freshly made bread. "I'll thank you to wait until we are all seated, doctor," she hummed, with a wicked twinkle in her eye. It was enough to have Sylvia smile and realise that adults were not always too concerned about the social classes as her mother was.

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The meal was eaten, much talk about the day's work, though passing over Sylvia's mother, which wasn't easy. In fact it was Sylvia who broached the subject in that she wasn't certain where she would spend Christmas.

"Well," Lucien looked round the table. Jean widened her eyes, Mary and Li looked hopeful, Thomas smiled, knowing what his son was about to say, Sylvia just looked as if she was about to burst into tears. "I think, if you would like to, perhaps could spend it with us, you would be most welcome, wouldn't she, father, Jean?"

"She most certainly would," they agreed.

"Oh, goodness," she sniffed, "why are you so kind to me, after what my mother did to you, Mrs Beazley?"

" _You_ didn't do it, though," Jean smiled and reached across the table to touch her hand, "you are not your mother, Sylvia, we would love to have you stay for Christmas."

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Of course it meant they had to persuade Family Welfare, who, while happy to let a child stay with friends for one night, had to be convinced that for a longer stay it was the right thing to do.

Lucien checked the progress of Mrs Hammond's case. Matthew informed him that she would not be released before Christmas, and even if she was Family Welfare had indicated they did not think a convicted fraudster was a suitable person to be a parent.

"She will be put up for fostering," Matthew told him, "sent to live with some family she doesn't know, for however long she, or they, can stand it."

"We were wondering," Lucien sat down in the chair opposite Matthew's desk, adorned with its newly inscribed wooden name plate, 'Inspector Matthew Lawson', "if we could make a case for Sylvia staying with us. I know, we are not a 'family' in the usual sense of the word, but, Jean will see she is properly fed and clothed, Dad and I are both doctors so her health and wellbeing will be well tended to ..." he tailed off.

"Bloody hell," Matthew whistled, "are you sure? What does Jean think, she's the one who does all the work."

"She agrees, and it was a family discussion," Lucien leant forward, "Matthew, Sylvia is a child, she needs the stability of a family home, as do all children. Jean has experience of looking after children who are adrift, she's raised my own daughter, as well as her own, however long Sylvia is allowed to stay with us, she will be loved, nurtured, made to feel part of a home."

"Hmm ..." Matthew scowled, "I suppose ..."

"You know Jean, better than I do," Lucien pressed on, "who else is better prepared? ... she seems to have this bubble around her, a safe place where no one can be hurt, it's like ... oh I don't know ... like absorbing ... drinking in love." He ran his hand through his hair, "Matthew ..."

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Family Welfare arrived, unannounced, to find Jean, Mary, Sylvia and Li making star shaped biscuits. They were adorned in flour and giggling like toddlers. As Jean mused later, it was what they should see, nothing special put on just for them.

"Right, you three wash up," Jean instructed, "I'll just be in the living room. Don't touch the oven." This last was just for the woman observing, Mary and Li were used to baking and Jean had taught them to use the oven and stove safely.

Jean showed Mrs Harrison around, where Sylvia slept, the bathroom and studio. "The surgery is off limits," she told her, "though they can find me in the waiting room if they need me."

"I'll extend the arrangement," Mrs Harrison nodded, watching her remove the now baked biscuits from the oven, "it's not easy to place children at this time of year, and, I have to admit, you have made her welcome and it all seems very safe and homely."

"If you leave the paperwork I'll have Dr Blake sign it, then, shall I?"

"Please, then drop it in at the office." They shook hand and Jean showed her out, breathing a sigh of relief.

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Another stocking appeared on the mantel of the studio fireplace, with Sylvia's name appliquéd on it. This was something Jean had done ever since Mary's first Christmas, everybody had one, Jean filled all of them, Thomas filled hers. Just little things, an orange was always pushed into the toe, then small and sometimes rather silly things were added.

"Lucien," Thomas pulled him aside while Jean was in the garden, "will you fill Jean's stocking this year, I have all the things for it?"

Er, yes I suppose so," he scratched his head, "what goes in them?"

"Oh just little things," his father smiled, "Jean will do all the others, she always has done. It also might be an idea if you could go and get a small gift for Sylvia from us. I know Jean has done something, I think the cardigan she was knitting for Mary is going to her instead."

"Right, so ..." he thought for a moment, "a book, perhaps ... nothing too learned."

"Quite," Thomas agreed, "Mary will know what's best."


	14. Chapter 14

While she thought she was looking forward to Christmas more than usual, Sylvia was also aware she needed to find something to at least show her appreciation of what the Blake household were doing for her. She decided to ask Mary as she had already bought her a gift. Nothing extravagant, a set of postcards from the gallery, showing the work of a variety of painters and a slim volume on the life of David Davies, who, unbeknownst to both girls had been known to Genevieve.

"You don't have to," Mary assured her.

"Oh but I must," Sylvia gasped, "I can't take the hospitality they offer without giving something back."

So the two girls had headed into town, as they had previously planned, and Mary had helped her friend choose something suitable. For Lucien she found a Swiss army penknife, as he was always investigating things she thought this might be useful, for Thomas a tie and for Jean a sweet little powder compact.

"What can I get Li?" she tucked her purse into her jacket pocket, "I don't know what she likes."

"She's pretty good at embroidery," Mary told her, "so perhaps we should go to the sewing shop mum uses. They may have something."

"Alright," Sylvia grinned, "this is so much nicer than trudging round Melbourne with mother."

Mary didn't know quite what to make of that remark, so kept quiet.

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Alice Harvey was having much the same thoughts as Sylvia, that she should offer a gift to Jean ... to the household. It was so far away from anything she had experienced, and in the end she decided she had to ask Matthew.

"No worries, Alice," he smiled, "I have sorted it, hope you don't mind," he hastily continued, "some chocolates for Jean, whisky for Lucien and Thomas and sweets for the girls."

"Are you sure," she twisted her fingers together, "only ... well ..."

"Hey, don't worry," he soothed, "and we can go and help with preparing the veggies on Christmas Eve, then go to Midnight Mass together, with them ..."

"Have you done this before?" she raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"Before the war," he shrugged, "not much changes, not in this anyway."

"Oh," she mused.

"After my mother died, Jean insisted," he folded his arms, "Vera, my sister, has he r own family, in Melbourne, so ... well, I don't get much time off."

"I see ..." this was the first she had heard about any family. "your sister ..."

"Vera has a little girl, Rose," Matthew smiled and his face lit up at the thought of his niece, "the red haired tornado, Vera calls her, always on the go, never stops asking questions, writing stories ..."

"I thought .. from what Jean said ... about your mother being horrified at you having a pasty for your dinner ..."

"Yeah, well, Jean likes to remind me that good food is essential ... and let's be honest, Alice, she's a good cook."

"Hm," she smiled, "she is."

Matthew still didn't quite know what to make of Dr Harvey. Jean was right when she told Lucien he was smitten with her, and she could see it was going to be a long courtship. Perhaps, over Christmas, he could make some progress.

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Alice was also unsure what Matthew wanted from her. She had never had an easy relationship with men. They only ever seemed to want one thing, and she had got tired of being used and abused. Her parents, disappointed that their second child had turned out to be another daughter, had largely neglected her, emotionally, ignored her when she complained a male relative was touching her intimately, and hadn't even bothered to try and make her stay at home when she told them, quite sharply, that she was going to university and she didn't care to consider marriage or children. So, for a man to seem to take her seriously as an intelligent woman, it was not something she had ever experienced; especially as he didn't seem to want to drag her off to bed and use her for his own pleasure. So she started to enjoy his attentions, the odd drink after work or at the end of a case, dinner, on her birthday, and the times he walked her back to her boarding house after a meal at Lucien Blake's house. He would give her a soft kiss to her cheek and wish her pleasant dreams, then go on his way.

She found herself daydreaming instead of reading her book in bed, wondering how it would be if Matthew and she ... no, it would never happen, they would always be just friends, good friends, but friends all the same.

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"Good shopping trip, girls?" Jean called out from the kitchen on hearing the door go.

"Yes, but we're starving now," Mary laughed, "we got some mistletoe."

"What on earth for?" Jean looked up the hall and frowned.

Mary was on the point of suggesting her and Uncle Lucien but stopped herself, it would be inappropriate for them, even if she and Li still harboured hopes, so she went for the more obvious.

"Uncle Matthew and Dr Harvey," she smirked, "you've got to admit it, mum," she held out the greenery, "he's got the hots for her."

"Mary!" Jean gasped, "such a way to speak about your elders," though she did agree. She would have to watch Mary now she was becoming a young woman and was a little less childish in her thoughts.

"Sorry," Mary calmed down.

"Alright, you can hang it over the front door," Jean sighed "but be careful what you say in front of them."

"We've got enough for the studio doorway too," she held up another piece.

"What's that?" Lucien appeared around the corner, "oh, mistletoe, eh? Great idea, girls, with so many lovely girls in the house it won't go to waste," he winked.

Mary giggled, Sylvia blushed beetroot red and Jean huffed and glared at him.

"That's quite enough of that, doctor," she scolded, "but you could help them put it up."

"Er, right," he scratched his head.

"Oh really," she rolled her eyes, "in the garage, there's a small toolkit. Get the little hammer and a couple of small nails ... and the step ladder." She wondered what the state of his thumbs would be after he had finished, or the woodwork, for that matter.

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Ice for his thumb solved the problem of a bashed fingernail. As she wrapped it round the sore digit he watched her. She had that look on her face mothers had when their naughty child had been up to no good.

"Who would have done it if I hadn't?" he mumbled, wondering if Bill or Matthew did things like that for her, still.

"Me," she shrugged, and looked at him, "what?" he had raised his eyebrows at the image of Jean wielding a hammer, "Lucien," she sighed, "if I can drive a tractor I can surely hit a small nail into a door frame."

"Of course," he smiled, "I was forgetting." She was so slight, and far too pretty to do such things, in his mind, and he would conveniently forget how strong and capable she actually was.

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"I'm afraid I'm not very domesticated," Alice whispered to Matthew as they arrived to help prepare the vegetables for the next day, "I never cook, I'm not sure I can."

"Can you set a table?" he raised his hand to knock on the door.

"Yes," she nodded slowly.

"Why don't you offer to help one of the girls to do that, then," he smiled and squeezed her hand, "anything you do will be appreciated."

"Right," she didn't pull her hand away, which he saw as progress.

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Jean had soon worked out that Alice would be uncomfortable with some kind of cooking activity, something she had once said over dinner, about a boarding house suiting her because she didn't have to cook, so she had suggested to Mary that she ask Alice to help with the table and show her how to fold the napkins.

"Don't make it too complicated, love," she whispered.

"Ok," Mary thought for a moment, "I need the iron."

"Mary," Jean warned.

"It's not complicated," Mary huffed, "she'll get the hang of it, she's an intelligent woman."

Jean gave her a side-long look but let her take the iron and ironing board into the dining room where Lucien had put the extra leaf in the dining table to extend it to accommodate all who would be sharing their Christmas lunch.

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It had become less exhausting, over time, being around people who treated her as some part of a rather disjointed family, but by the time Matthew had escorted Alice to the door of her boarding house she was feeling relaxed and strangely warm. She had quickly 'got the hang' of folding the napkins with Mary and had enjoyed the young girl's company. It had been years since she had attended church for any reason, but Midnight Mass was oddly uplifting. She herself had a good contralto, Jean's sweet soprano and Lucien's lyrical tenor blended well with it, and she was surprised to find Matthew's voice was deep and rich, and in tune. She hadn't thought of him as a singer, before.

"Well," he took her hand, "I'll bid you good morning, Alice," he kissed her cheek, "before your landlady sees me off with a flea in my ear."

"And you, Matthew," she returned the kiss, to his cheek, which surprised him, "thank you, for introducing me to Christmas as it should be, I think I shall enjoy tomorrow."

"I'm sure you will," he watched her turn to open the door as he always did, and he would wait until she had closed it behind her, just to be certain in his mind that she was safe.

She pushed, but the door didn't open. She turned the handle again and pushed a little harder.

"Damn," she hissed, "she's locked me out. I told her I was going to the service tonight ... now what?"

"Doesn't she give out a front door key?" he tried the door.

"No, we have to be in by ten," she blushed, "but it was the only place I could find when I came here. It's a bit restricting but I'm never late, even when we go out for dinner."

"I have a spare room," he wondered how she would take this offer, "or I could take you to the Blake's."

"I can't disturb them," she ran her hands through her hair.

"My place then," he offered her his arm.

"Matthew," she whispered, "I can't, what will people say?"

"Who's to know?" he smiled, "I'm offering a room for the night, Alice. I promise not to ... er ... well, you know," it was his turn to blush.

She stood thinking; she couldn't sit on the doorstep until her landlady unlocked the door at six in the morning. She was cross that she had been locked out. Surely the woman knew that Midnight Mass meant just that, 'Midnight', and by which token she would be late back.

"God knows what she," she nodded her head to the door, "will think when I come back to change."

"Come on, doctor," he offered her his arm, again, "let's go home."

She didn't really have a choice, and she knew she could trust Matthew.

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He unlocked the door and flicked on the hall light. In the sudden bright light Alice blinked. She took in the tidy coat stand, with a pair of shoes underneath, the ones he wore with his uniform, the jacket of which was hung on a hanger on the stand. He took her jacket and hung it up for her then escorted her down to the living room.

"Erm," he grunted, "kitchen's through there ... do you want a cuppa?" He thought he should offer.

"No, no thank you," she hesitated, "it's a bit late."

"Right, well, this way," he took her upstairs," you can have this room, I'll just get some sheets, bathroom's there," he pointed further down the landing.

"Thank you," she headed in that direction, to use the lavatory and rinse her mouth out ...

"Should be a new toothbrush in the cabinet," he called after her, "help yourself!"

He fetched two sheets and pillow cases and set to making up the bed. As he did so he wondered what she would sleep in; her clothes, her underwear, nothing! The wrong thought, he realised as his body began to react in the way he'd rather it didn't. He shook himself and made himself think of something else completely, it wouldn't do for her to come back to the room and see an unmistakable bulge in his trousers.

She returned just as he decided one of his pyjama tops might be an idea for emergency nightwear. He smiled shyly and she returned the look equally so. She had removed her makeup and cleaned her teeth, and he thought she looked rather nice. She always was pretty, to him, but tonight she had a vulnerability he hadn't seen in a woman since Jean had been abandoned by Christopher.

"I, er," he cleared his throat, "thought, perhaps," he pointed to the nightwear, "that is ..."

"Thank you, Matthew," she could sense his embarrassment, "that is most kind of you."

"Right, well, I'll say good night, then," he made to pass her and leave the room.

"Goodnight, Matthew," she whispered, "sleep well."

"You too."

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She lay in the bed, in his pyjama top and had the sudden urge to giggle. What a ridiculous situation, she thought. Then she wondered, did he rattle around in this house all by himself, day after day? She knew it was the family home, he had said so on one occasion, when they were discussing where they lived. She looked around the room, it had obviously been Vera's when she was younger. There were the touches one would expect in a young girls room, flowered paper on the walls, a dressing table and mirror with a little tray for things like hair pins. She heard Matthew's bedroom door shut and knew she wouldn't see him until the morning.

She turned off the light and settled down, drifting off quickly and sleeping soundly, unusually for her.

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Mary and Li jumped up at first light, first running down to wake Sylvia then to leap onto Jean's bed and greet her with cries of "Happy Christmas, mum, mama, Mrs Beazley!" Sylvia had no choice but to join in as Mary had her firmly by the hand. Jean sat up and laughed, embracing each one and bestowing Christmas greetings on them.

"Please don't do this to gran'pa," she laughed, "it won't do him any good."

"Can I do it to papa?" Li shuffled off the bed, "and can Mary come too?"

"And Sylvia," Mary teased, "all for one ..!"

"... and one for all!" the other two squealed and they ran out of the room to leap onto Lucien. Sylvia was so caught up in the joy it didn't occur to her that it was not something her mother would deem proper - her daughter greeting friends with loud squeals and leapings upon beds.

Jean laughed again and stretched. She would get up and start the day, breakfast, presents, lunch; so much to do and it would be done with a heart full of joy and love. Their newly expanded family and friends would meet and share the festive fun and love. Li had asked Father Christmas for her papa every year since she had learned to write her letter, now she had him and so much more. Mary had never asked for such a thing, just for peace and perhaps a new book, she wasn't materialistic in the slightest but Jean and Thomas had always tried to surprise her.

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As the Blake household were rising, drinking their first cups of tea, bathing and dressing ready for breakfast, Alice was pushing her dark hair out of her eyes and answering Matthew's knock on the door.

"Morning, Alice," he tentatively peered round the door, "thought you might like a cuppa."

"Oh, er, yes, thank you," she sat up and arranged the covers decently over her hips and ensured the pyjama top, that was far too big for her, wasn't showing too much flesh. "Good morning."

"Did you sleep alright?" he stepped in and placed a cup of tea on the cabinet next to the bed.

"Actually," she smiled, "I slept very well, for a change."

"Oh, well, that's good," he wasn't sure how to take this. "Now," he retreated to the chair, "how do you want to work things today? I mean," he hurried on, "your landlady, erm ..."

She slowly sipped the tea, "well," she mused, "I need to go and change, pick up your present ..."

"We are due at the Blake's for twelve," he sat forward, elbows on knees and fingers intertwined.

"Well, I'd better go back and ..."

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Mary greeted Matthew and Alice with a huge smile on her face and a loud '"Happy Christmas!" and all Alice's annoyance at her landlady disappeared. Matthew gave her a big hug, and Li and even Sylvia was drawn into an embrace. Jean poked her nose round the corner and grinned, it looked like Mary was holding them to ransom under the mistletoe. Jean knew they were unlikely to oblige just then, poor Alice looked a bit nonplussed at the noise and the greeting and was perhaps half a step behind Matthew.

"Dr Harvey," Mary must have read her thoughts, "Happy Christmas, it's lovely that you have come to spend the day with us."

"Thank you, Mary," she smiled a small, but warm, smile, "the same to you, and it's so nice of you to invite me."

"You're a friend of the family, doctor," Mary smiled, "of course you're invited."

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Sherries and whiskies were poured, Thomas was allowed one small measure that he savoured, knowing he was lucky to be able to share this day with his long lost son. More presents were opened and thanks were given. The girls seemed as delighted with the small tokens from Matthew and Alice, as they were with the gifts from their close family. Jean had bought Mary a watch, she said it was to save her constantly checking the town hall clock for the time, for when she was out with friends and had a time to be home. Mary was thrilled; a small round dial, gold, on a brown leather strap; it sat proudly on her wrist.

Lucien kissed Jean's cheek, under the mistletoe quite by accident, in thanks for the pen she had given him. She blushed but returned the kiss as a thank you for the sewing box he had given her. He did admit he had some help in filling it.

"It's lovely, Lucien," she smiled, "now I won't prick my finger every time I look for a reel of thread."

"Good," he whispered, taking her hand and turning it over, as if checking for pin pricks.

Everybody else was too busy laughing and admiring each other's gifts to notice the exchange.

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Dinner was hugely enjoyed by everyone, Jean was congratulated on the feast and toasted with wine and lemonade. Everyone ate well, even Thomas whose appetite had been suppressed of late, but although his portion was smaller than Matthew or Lucien's, he cleared his plate and even had room for dessert, which was Pavlova, with lots of fresh fruit and cream, though Jean had been a little less generous with the cream this year.

"That, Jean," Lucien leant back in his chair and sighed, "was stupendous! I shan't need to eat for at least a month."

"Is that so, doctor," she blushed at the compliment, "so, you don't want a chocolate truffle with your coffee?" she pouted.

"Oh, really?" he sat forward, "not ..."

"She makes them every year," Thomas smiled, a little sadly, "just the way your maman used to."

"Not even the best chocolatiers in Paris could make them like she did," he looked a little wistful.

The remains of the dessert, plates and cutlery was cleared from the table and piled in the kitchen, while Jean prepared coffee and tea, and Mary set the truffles on a small basket woven by Li from raffia, and lined with a fine muslin cloth.

Alice appeared at Jean's elbow.

"Is there anything I can help with?" she murmured, emboldened by the happy warm feeling that had settled over her.

"Oh, Dr Harvey," Jean jumped slightly, "would you take the cups and saucers through, please.

"Of course, and please, call me Alice, not a day to be so formal, is it."

"Only if you call me Jean," the so called smiled back, "and you're right, this is family."

Alice smiled and thought she might have a talk with her new friend, at some time - about 'family'.

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Lucien took a truffle and stared at it. He licked the cocoa dust off and bit into it, savouring the dark, almost bitter taste, the smooth creamy centre that melted on his tongue and closed his eyes in reverence. Jean watched him, a strange tug in her lower abdomen. There was a speck of chocolate on his lower lip and she wondered what it would be like to kiss it away, taste the chocolate on him, on his tongue.

"Good, son?" Thomas asked, softly.

"Magnifique," he murmured, "vraiment merveilleux." He opened his eyes and smiled, "truly wonderful," he translated, rightly assuming Jean did not speak French.

"Thank you, Lucien," she blinked herself out of her daydream.

The others likewise tried the truffles and agreed they were delightful but it was Lucien's praise that meant the most to Jean.

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After lunch (and washing up) they played parlour games, charades, and The Minister's cat. Mary, Li and Sylvia were very good at charades, knowing more of the newer books and films, Jean was almost as good as Lucien at The Minister's cat and it was universally held that it was a draw between them.

Nobody really wanted much to eat after the feast they had enjoyed earlier so Jean put out cake, gingerbreads and biscuits and tea for people to help themselves to and they settled to listening to Mary and Lucien play the piano until tiredness prompted Thomas to bid everyone a goodnight, and to thank them for making this a Christmas to remember.

Lucien stood up and went to him, holding out his hands.

"Dad, Happy Christmas, it's one I never thought to see and I am so glad I came home."

"So am I son," Thomas gripped his hands, "so am I."

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Mary, Li and Sylvia also decided that enough was enough, and they should leave the, hopefully, courting couples alone. They kissed each one goodnight and thanked them for the gifts they had been so kind as to give them.

"Sylvia seems to have settled in," Matthew observed, leaning back in his chair, "you always make the lost sheep welcome, Jean."

"There's been plenty to take her mind off her home life," Jean refused Lucien's offer of a sherry, "no doubt there will be storms to weather as time goes on."

"So ..." Alice mused.

"Long term fostering," Lucien put in, "unless she decides to move on, though we can't find a record of any other relatives."

"Oh," she seemed lost in thought for a moment, "your family seems to be growing, then."

"Indeed it does," Jean smiled.

There was a pause, a silence as Alice processed this. Jean seemed so content, so happy to have family around her, young girls; daughters?; growing up under her care, why hadn't her parents given her the same love?

"Come on, Alice," Matthew suddenly broke the silence, "time to get you back before you get locked out, again."

Alice blushed and Matthew realised what he had said.

"Alice?" Jean asked.

"I was locked out of the boarding house last night," Alice huffed, "I told her I was going to Midnight Mass and assumed she would understand I would be late back. She locked the door."

"Goodness, " Jean gasped, "you should have come here."

"No, I didn't want to disturb you," she reddened, "I found alternative accommodation."

"I see," Jean looked at Matthew who was looking at his fingers and she knew he had taken her in, to that large house of his, "well, as long as you were safe."

"I was," Alice drew herself up, "but I better get back ..."

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Matthew stood at the front door and hugged Jean, thanking her for a lovely day, and shook Lucien's hand.

"Glad you're back, old friend," he grinned, "this has certainly been a Christmas to remember."

"It has, hasn't it," Lucien grinned back, "and I am so very glad to be home."

Alice accepted an embrace from Jean and also from Lucien, though she was a little stiff about that one. She had only just got used to Matthew touching her. Lucien understood and took no offence. He and Jean stood side by side as their guests walked, arm in arm, down the drive and into Ballarat.

He closed the door and looked up to where he had hung the sprig of mistletoe a few days ago, it was gone.

"Ha, the devil," he laughed.

"What?"

"Matthew," he pointed, "he's pinched the mistletoe."

Jean giggled, he noticed, had noticed all day, in fact, she had a lovely musical giggle, girlish and free.

"He deserves it," she smiled, "I'm glad he and she have found each other."

"Yeah, me too," he turned and headed down the hallway, "join me, in the studio, Jean."

Jean frowned, what did he want. It had been a good day, everything had gone well. She shrugged, perhaps he wanted to say how much he liked the truffles.

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He was standing, nervously, in front of the fireplace, his hands behind his back.

"Lucien?" she advanced towards him, stopping by the couch.

"Jean," he swallowed, "Jean, a few days ago, well nearly a week, I suppose, you lost something, something very dear to you ..." the words came out in something of a rush, "... so ..." he pulled his hands to the front and held out a small gift wrapped package. It was rectangular, not much longer than his hand, "... for you."

"Lucien," she whispered, "you have already given me a gift."

"I know, one I purchased before ... please, take it ..." he was losing the power of speech.

She took the gift as if it was about to explode and turned it round in her hand.

She unwrapped it, and gasped as she saw the familiar sign of the jewellers in town. What had he bought her? She opened it and staggered backwards onto the couch. It was the most perfect tiny silver cross on a chain. Absolutely plain except for a little pressed curl at each end.

"Lucien," she put her hand to her mouth, "it's too much." Her eyes shone with tears.

"Nothing is too much for you, Jean," he stepped forward and took the necklace out of the box and fastened it round her neck, "there ... lovely."

She stood up, suddenly and ran out of the studio. Lucien watched in horror, had he really offended her? He looked down the hall and relaxed; she was standing in front of the mirror there and looking at the cross, a little smile on her pretty face. She turned and went a little pink at being discovered admiring herself wearing the cross. She supposed she should have been cross? offended? embarrassed? Whatever she should have been feeling was crowded out by a glow, a warmth - that he should do something like this for her, his housekeeper, try and mend something that was broken. He had, in so many ways, and she would treasure this gift knowing it wasn't just from him but also so that she would remember her father, still.

"Thank you," she smiled, a little shyly, "it's beautiful," she advance towards him, "I missed wearing the other one."

"It was special, and I know this one doesn't have the same meaning ..."

"... it has one very similar, though, Lucien," she whispered, "for which I thank you."

They were standing in the doorway to the studio, directly under the mistletoe and there was an electrical charge in the air. Lucien bent towards her, slowly, giving her ample time to move, but she didn't. Instead she raised her hands and held his forearms, tilting her head just enough to let him brush her lips with his. His beard was surprisingly soft as it brushed against her skin and it tickled a little. A unique experience for her, she didn't remember even a bewhiskered elderly relative kissing her. She had to admit, only to herself, she rather liked it.

He felt, rather than heard, the little sigh as he broke the slight contact. Emboldened he tried for a second, longer kiss and she let him. Though it wasn't a deep kiss, she didn't part her lips to let his tongue in, she wanted to, but was afraid he would find the action too forward in one of her station in life, in his house. He rested his forehead against hers and smiled.

"Happy Christmas, Jean," he whispered.

"And to you, Lucien, welcome home."

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The week between Christmas and New Year seemed to fly by. The girls went out to meet their friends some days, Lucien, Alice and Matthew were on duty as deaths by fair means or foul are no respectors of festive occasions. Fortunately there were no murders and really all Lucien ended up doing was patching up drunks in the cells and small children who came to his surgery after eating too much chocolate.

In the quiet times he and Jean continued to get to know each other. He already knew how she took her tea, and would make her a cuppa if she was busy in the sun room or doing some household chore. They relaxed around each other, he was no longer reticent about hugging her, though he did try to do so away from the eyes of the girls, to spare her blushes and their questions. They both continued to see that Thomas behaved himself and presented a united front over his diet and exercise regime. He was encouraged to potter around the garden, take a little walk and so he didn't go, in his words, 'stir crazy', Lucien took him down to the Colonists Club where Thomas proposed his membership, and Cec Drury, who had known him since he was a boy, seconded it. The Member's Committee couldn't see how they could refuse especially as he had Michael Tyneman's backing too. Patrick had huffed about them letting in all sorts these days but he was firmly put in his place by his father. Lucien wasn't sure he wanted to be part of such a group but Thomas insisted it would be good for his standing in the town.

"You never know what you might learn," he murmured, "especially as you seem to have a penchant for sticking your nose into other people's business when you are involved in a case with Matthew."

"You may have a point there, dad," he smiled, "now, let's go home, Jean will wipe the floor with both of us if we are late for dinner."

"Hmm..." Thomas had a little glint in his eye, "you've grown rather fond of her, haven't you, son?"

"Oh, is it that obvious?" Lucien had the good grace to blush a little, "you don't mind? I mean, if I did decide to court her ..."

"Why should I mind?" Thomas took his cane and pushed himself off his stool at the bar, "she's a perfectly lovely girl, god fearing, well mannered and polite ... and an exceptional cook."

"Would you have minded if I had found her before her husband? When she was, in her words, a simple farm girl?"

"Farm girl she may have been, son, but never simple," Thomas accepted his helping hand down the stairs, "I don't know, honestly. Now I would say no, it would not have mattered, after all I defied my family to marry a French woman."

"Yes, indeed," he mused.

"Mind you don't hurt her, son, please," Thomas stopped and looked at him, "I mean it, Jean means a lot to me. In some ways she's the daughter I never had. I was there when she was born, delivered Mary for her ... she's been through enough without you breaking her heart."

"I have no intention of breaking her heart," Lucien said firmly, "ever."

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Alice, meanwhile, was pondering what to do next. she had had a blazing row with her landlady about the goodnight kisses Matthew planted on her cheek. It was perhaps just as well they had found somewhere to put the mistletoe to use on Christmas night where they couldn't be seen, because the kiss was certainly not as chaste as usual. In fact there had been a few others at his house when she had called round to pass him an autopsy report. It wasn't strictly necessary for him to see the report immediately, but she had finished for the day and it was too nice to go home to her boarding house.

So she had knocked on the door, been invited in and had stayed for a cuppa, a chat and a rather long time kissing on the couch. More than kissing, and, although they hadn't made love they had come very close.

Perhaps she should have repaired her lipstick, checked that her hair was as neatly styled as it had been when she left for work that morning, but, unfortunately her lipstick was worn away, most of it was on Matthew somewhere or another, and her hair looked a little as if she had been out in a breeze, just the wrong side of tidy. But she didn't and the damn woman noticed. She told Alice, in no uncertain terms, that she kept a proper house, that she expected all her guests to be respectable and not to expect to be able to come in at all times of the day and night without so much as a by your leave. Men were not allowed on the premises.

"What are you insinuating?" Alice gasped, Matthew had never set foot over the front step.

"You know perfectly well miss," she sniffed, "the goings on at my front door at night."

"Pardon?" Alice didn't think a kiss on the cheek counted as 'goings on'.

"You and that man," the landlady folded her arms.

Alice touched her cheek, unconsciously, where Matthew usually bestowed his kiss.

"Precisely."

"I don't think it's anything to do with you," Alice tipped her chin defiantly, "he doesn't come into the house."

"It is everything to do with me, missy," she retaliated.

Being called 'missy' was enough to tip Alice over the edge.

"You are not my mother," she snapped, "and I am not doing anything illegal or wrong."

"I think, _Dr_ Harvey; why a woman would want to do what you do I don't know, not right, not right at all; it might be better if you seek lodgings elsewhere."

"Don't worry, I will," Alice pushed past her and stormed up the stairs to think over her next move.

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Nearly New Year's eve and she still hadn't found somewhere else to live. She was just coming out of Connolly's Hotel, again no room, when Mary came giggling past with Sylvia.

"Hello, Dr Harvey," she smiled at her, then noticed Alice was not in the least bit happy, "everything alright?"

"Oh, hello Mary, Sylvia," Alice sighed, "not really. I'm trying to find somewhere else to live, my current lodgings don't really suit me."

"Where have you tried?"

"Just about everywhere," Alice's shoulders sagged.

"Come and have a cuppa, we were just going to," Mary suggested, "maybe we can think of something."

As Mary was Ballarat born and bred, Alice could see the logic in this, and she could do with a cup of tea.

Mary listed everywhere she knew that took in boarders.

"The trouble is, Mary," Alice sipped her tea, "I've tried them all, and those that aren't full are wary about having a single female in a house where single men also stay."

"What about renting a house, on your own," Sylvia suggested.

"It had crossed my mind," Alice admitted, "but that takes time, time I haven't got. The witch wants me out by New Year's eve.

Mary was staring out of the window, deep in thought. Suddenly she got up and excused herself.

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"I don't know if she'll accept the offer, Mary," Matthew pulled her to where they couldn't be seen by Alice or Sylvia, who assumed she had gone to visit the lavatory.

"I'd suggest ours, but I know she wouldn't accept," Mary sighed, "with gran'pa recovering mum has a lot to do."

"Yeah, right," he mused, "I'll talk to her, she hasn't said anything, though."

Mary rolled her eyes.

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Matthew gave her a couple of minutes to return to the table and continue her conversation, the subject had turned to the fun they had had on Christmas day and they were just laughing at a word Matthew had used in The Minister's Cat when he appeared. He made it look like he was just passing and had noticed them.

"Ready for a cuppa myself," he smiled, "mind if I join you?"

"Pull up a seat, Uncle Matthew," Mary laughed, Alice went a little pink, as she so often did when he joined a group she was in.

His tea was brought over and they spent a little longer together before Mary looked at her watch and pretended she and Sylvia would be late back for something.

"Sorry, we'll have to leave you," she went to the counter and paid the bill, Jean had given her enough change for a little treat, so she treated Sylvia, Matthew and Alice. She waved good bye and Sylvia and she scooted out of the cafe.

"What are we going to be late for?" Sylvia whispered.

"Nothing," Mary smirked, "but Uncle Matthew has the hots for the doctor and she needs a place to live."

"Mary!" Sylvia looked shocked, "you mean they should live together? But they're not married."

"Uncle Matthew has a big house, plenty of room for two," Mary linked arms with her friend, "I'm not suggesting anything else, Sylvia. Why shouldn't they share a house, mum shares gran'pa's and Uncle Lucien's."

Put like that, Sylvia thought that she was probably right. in spite of what her mother used to say about Mrs Beazley, which she now knew was not true in the slightest.

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It took some work, to get the reason for Alice's worry out of her, but Matthew had learned a few interrogation techniques during his years in the force.

"You should have said," he whispered, "you know I have room."

"There'll be talk, Matthew," she muttered back, "it's hard enough for me, being a woman I'm not expected to be working as a pathologist, I should be chained to the sink with a hoard of wailing children at my feet."

Matthew spluttered at the very thought and she glared at him. She was right, and he acknowledged this but he did have three bedrooms.

"... and there's a study you can put all your books in, you said they live in a box under your bed."

She remembered telling him she her landlady had gone in to change the bed and had told her that the books she kept on the shelves were not suitable for a young lady. He had wondered how private it was, living in a boarding house.

"It isn't," she had grumbled, "but at the same time she was supposed to be changing the bed, not looking at my reading material."

"So," he sighed, "what's it to be? If she wants you out by New Year ... "

Her shoulders dropped, he was right.

"I'll even put a lock on the bedroom door, if you want," he teased.

She smiled, he was trying to make it easy for her, and why not? They were both adults, and her landlady had men staying, it was no different really, was it? She straightened and nodded.

"Alright," she finally agreed, "but you don't need to bother with the lock, remember, I'm a doctor, I know just how to hurt you."

He blanched, then smiled, Alice didn't often make jokes.

She would help with the running costs, she insisted, "I don't want to be a kept woman," she told him, "that would not be good for either of our reputations."

They arranged that, when he finished his shift, he would go over to the boarding house and help her move her things.

"Are you trying to make it worse?" she raised her eyebrows.

"I shall arrive in uniform, she's never seen that," he shrugged, "and help you carry the boxes; though I know you are perfectly capable of doing it yourself; but it will be quicker with two."

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Alice had paid the last of her rent and had all the boxes on her bed when Inspector Lawson arrived at the house, asking to speak to Dr Harvey. The landlady scowled, now the police were after her. She didn't recognise Matthew as the man who regularly kissed her lodger goodnight. She showed him in.

"Her room?" he looked up the stairs.

"Oh, er, yes," she indicated he should follow her.

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She stood outside the bedroom door trying to listen to the conversation inside, but they kept their voices especially low.

"So," he whispered, after kissing her gently on the cheek, "this all you have?"

"It's enough," she smiled, returning the kiss then wiping the lipstick off his cheek with her thumb.

They had a few more words, about how to appear before the dragon, or the 'witch' as Alice called her, and decided they would carry the boxes down to Alice's car and if his hands wandered at any time she would offer no objection.

On the last trip up the stairs they held hands. They walked back down the stairs, he carrying her last case and his free arm around her waist. The witch's eyes nearly fell out of her head when, after stowing the case in the car, Inspector Lawson kissed Dr Harvey firmly on the lips. He got into the passenger seat noting that Alice did not blush, she got behind the wheel and drove off, what the witch thought was anyone's guess, but it probably wasn't complimentary.

Alice, for once, didn't care, and neither did Matthew.


	15. Chapter 15

At last I have got round to updating this story. Christmas, panto and the muse going walkabout have not helped. I hope it was worth waiting for.

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"She could have come here, Mary," Jean took her daughter aside, "you should not interfere in things that do not concern you."

Mary hung her head. After the initial idea had sunk in she realised she could have done something she shouldn't have. Sitting in Sylvia's room and talking about it she got more and more worried that Dr Harvey and Uncle Matthew's relationship was nothing to do with her. She decided to come clean and speak to her mother.

"I know, mum, and I'm sorry, but you know she won't come here because you have a lot to do with gran'pa and the house and surgery," Mary sniffed, "I just thought, well I suppose I didn't really ... but ..."

"Hm," Jean pursed her lips, "you are probably right about her not wanting to add to my workload, but still ..."

"Just seen Matthew," Lucien breezed in, "got a grin as wide as the ocean on his face," he looked from Jean to Mary, then back to Jean, "have I missed something?"

There was a pause, a loaded silence, then Mary spoke.

"I interfered," she could hardly look him in the eye, "me and Sylvia saw Dr Harvey in town. She was looking for a place to stay, she had to get out of her boarding house. I saw Uncle Matthew and told him and he said he'd see if she wanted to share his house ..." she trailed off.

"Ah," Lucien nodded sagely, "matchmaking, are we?"

Mary bit her lip to stop the tears falling.

"No worries pet," he squeezed her shoulder, "I think he's quite happy about it, and Alice wouldn't have agreed if she was unhappy about it."

"All the same, doctor," Jean hummed, "she is too young to understand. If it get's known that Alice is living with Matthew ..."

"Alice will give as good as she gets," Lucien shrugged. "Matthew won't take liberties, no, I don't think we should worry about it, but," he looked at Mary, "I shouldn't try matchmaking again, not for a while." He bent and kissed her cheek.

Which of course put paid to any ideas she may have had concerning her mother and the doctor.

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Matthew called up the stairs to Alice. They were due at the Blake's for a meal and to see in the New Year so he was waiting to escort her. They were going to walk, it was such a lovely evening but they were running a little behind hand.

"Coming!" she called down, taking a deep breath and putting the last touches to her makeup. She had admitted to Matthew, finally, that she was unsure, now that they shared the house, what Jean's reaction would be.

"I could say it's none of her business," he had shrugged, "but, I don't think she will have anything to say. You have your own room, she knows the size of the house."

"It's just I don't want to offend her," Alice sighed, "I have never had a female friend like her and I wouldn't want to lose that friendship over our sharing a house."

"That's not likely to happen," he assured her with a smile, "Jean will not judge us for that," he offered her his arm, "you know her story. Now, Dr Harvey, may I say you look particularly attractive this evening, shall we go and enjoy the festivities and bring in the New Year over a glass or two?"

She laughed and slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow; tomorrow would not just be a new day, but a whole new year as well and who knew what that held?

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The girls were allowed to stay up until midnight, even though Li was struggling to keep her eyes open.

"You can go up to bed, you know," her father whispered in her ear, "nobody will think any less of you."

"Oh no, papa," she yawned, "not this time. I'll stay up to see in the New Year with you."

He kissed the top of her head and hugged her. He couldn't be happier here, with his daughter and his father, Jean and Mary and his friends. This was so much better than the glittering parties he had attended in Singapore and the drunken whisky fuelled celebrations of Hogmanay in his university days. There was a warmth, a feeling that the future was bright, that there was a lot to look forward to.

Mary was sitting staring out over the garden. Matthew and Alice had been perfectly pleasant to her when they arrived, smiling and hugging her but she still felt a little uncomfortable. Matthew went over and sat next to her.

"Penny for them?" he asked.

"Hm? Oh, sorry, miles away," she tried a smile.

"It's ok, you know," he squeezed her hand, "Lucien told me you got into a bit of strife, for telling me Alice needed a home."

"I shouldn't have said anything," she sniffed, "it was wrong of me."

"No it wasn't," he smiled, "you knew I had room, that she stayed after midnight mass, because she was locked out, you saw a way of helping her, that's just the way you are, kind and helpful."

"Are you sure? Is Dr Harvey sure?"

"Alice?" Matthew called her over.

"Matthew," she smiled, "something I can do for you?" She too knew about Jean's reaction to Mary's so called interference.

"Not me, Mary," he nodded in the young girl's direction, "she thinks she did wrong, telling me you were about to be thrown out on your ear."

"No you didn't," Alice murmured, "I have a lovely room, somewhere to put my books, other than in a box under the bed, and a landlord that keeps the same crazy hours as I do. You did me a favour, I thank you."

"Oh, really," Mary began to brighten, "so, I wasn't interfering?"

"Not that I am aware of," Alice smiled, "just doing a good turn."

"Now, Miss Mary," Matthew stood and offered her his hand, "it's about to turn midnight come on and join the celebration."

They cheered and raised their glasses to the New Year, kissed and hugged ... then Mary realised her mother and Lucien were missing. She slipped out of the studio and through to the kitchen where she noticed the door was open. She peeked round the corner and smiled, it would appear she had no need to match-make this time ... Jean and Lucien were in their own little world ... and this time the kiss was deep and passionate. Mary ducked out of sight and headed back into the studio to hug Sylvia and offer to help Li, who had fallen into a light doze on the couch, to bed. They said goodnight to Thomas who was also heading to his room, after wishing all present a Happy New Year and not making any comment about two of the household who were missing.

"Where's papa?" the younger girl mumbled.

"In the sun room, talking to mum," Mary told the half truth, "I'll send him up," she helped her sister into her pyjamas and tucked her in. "Happy New Year, Li."

"Mmph," Li snuffled down and was immediately fast asleep.

"Where is he?" Sylvia whispered as they left the room.

"In the sun room," Mary answered honestly.

"Oh," Sylvia drew her brows together, sure and not sure what Mary was telling her.

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Jean and Lucien had no idea they had been seen, not that they had purposefully hidden away to kiss. Jean had gone to look at the sky; a clear night the stars like fairy lights strung overhead entranced her in some childish fashion.

"Beautiful," a soft, deep voice rumbled.

"Aren't they," she didn't turn round, just smiled into the distance.

"I meant you," he closed the gap between them and saw her blush.

"Lucien," she looked down, "you shouldn't say such things."

"Why not?" he was standing next to her now, looking out over the garden, "it's the truth."

"I'm your housekeeper," even she knew that was no reason for him not to compliment her, "just an ordinary woman."

"You, Jean Beazley," he turned and looked at her profile, "are not 'ordinary', you are quite astonishing in many ways. You are the glue that holds us together, the fuel that keeps the engine of this house running."

"Tosh," she huffed, "you'd manage perfectly well without me."

He put his forefinger under her chin and tipped her face so she was looking at him. Her eyes were wide deep pools of the most amazing blue green hue, and he was willing to drown in them.

"No, I wouldn't," he bent and kissed her very softly on the lips, much like he had done on Christmas night.

She couldn't help herself, she responded, parting her lips enough to let his tongue in, and took that final step over the cliff into the blessed oblivion of Lucien's love, which was how Mary found them - and left them.

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Jean blushed furiously as they broke apart, breathless but wanting more. She felt it was wholly inappropriate that she should be kissing her employer in any way, and certainly not as passionately as that.

Lucien, though he sensed her sudden discomfort, wrapped his arms around her and kissed the top of her head.

"Beautiful Jean," he murmured, desperate to tell how he really felt, but afraid she would run. "Thank you."

She pulled back, "what for?"

"For everything," he said simply, "for making this house a home, for being you, for looking after dad and me and Li, for making the nightmares seem less frightening ..."

"I ..." she muttered, "I just do my job."

"No you don't, Jean," he brushed a loose curl from her forehead, "you do much more than that, you give this house life."

"Lucien ..."

"Please, " he raised his hand, "I need to tell you this, but I don't want to frighten you so ... I love you Jean, I think I have done since the first time I met you ..."

"Lucien ..."

"No, wait," he was afraid she was going to run, "it's not like that, not infatuation, I promise," he gasped, "I would never hurt you, I don't want to do anything with you that you would regret or ... I'm not sure how to say this, I've seen things in my life, done things I shouldn't have, courted women, flirted and flattered, I know that, but I'm not that man, not anymore. I'm a country doctor who dabbles in police cases and comes home to a well prepared meal and family ... heck I'd even take the slippers and the dog. Jean, what I'm trying to say is will you let me, erm ... that is to say, can we ...?"

She smiled, she knew and she would let him court her, "... if your father doesn't mind, after all ..."

"... he'll be delighted," he pulled her close again and kissed her, "he loves you very much, and Mary, but I'm not doing it for him ..."

She giggled, "I know," she thought it was an odd sort of conversation to have with a new beau, "but, I'd like to keep it from the girls, for a while anyway, Mary doesn't need encouraging in the match-making role."

"True," he laughed, "but she hit the nail on the head with Matthew and Alice."

"Lucien, she's a child," Jean pursed her lips, "the age I was when I started noticing boys. Christopher and I dated, if you could call it that, from the age of fifteen, not that my parents knew." She looked down at her fingers, "I was kept on a tight leash, Lucien, perhaps that's why I strayed ... I don't know, the forbidden ... how do I protect her? She is the best mistake I could make but it hasn't been easy, and now, if she sees you and me ..."

"Does she know?"

"Yes," she told him how she had explained to Mary about her conception, "she knows she was a mistake but that I'm glad I made it, in a way, that said, I also told her I'd rather she didn't make the same mistake."

"And if she does?"

"I will still love her and support her," she smiled, "it would be hypocritical if I didn't, but that's nothing to do with it - she's my daughter."

"Quite," he nodded, a remarkable woman, indeed.

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Mary thought she'd keep what she had seen a secret, at least until her mother mentioned it. She wouldn't even tell Li, even though they had talked about it on occasion, but Li might forget it was not a subject that the town should know about, and she would keep an ear out for gossip.

She lay in her bed after Matthew and Alice had left, thinking. If; please; she prayed, if her mother and Lucien did get married would that make her a Blake? Would Uncle Lucien let her call him dad, or daddy or papa? It would be nice. She had, on occasion, nearly done so and she was sure he had noticed, smiling a little smile as she stumbled over her words and rephrased what she was saying. If she got married, when she was old enough and had fallen in love, would he walk her down the aisle of Sacred Heart and give her away? So many questions and ideas ran through her head, fairly making her dizzy, and they weren't officially courting. She love that word, 'courting', so sweet and old fashioned, but it was the right word for them. She couldn't imagine that Lucien would take her mother to bed (to do what married people did) before they were married, at least she hoped not, but then her mother wouldn't let him - would she? No, not this time, she had made that mistake before, she was no longer the wayward nineteen year old but a grown woman of nearly thirty three, which sounded positively ancient to the young girl.

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"Where were Jean and Lucien, at midnight?" Alice asked Matthew on the way home.

"Sun room," Matthew smiled, "didn't you notice the smug expression on Blake's face and the slightly guilty look on Jean's?"

"Not especially, Lucien has a tendency to look smug," she hummed, frowning, "and Jean had her back to me."

"Pretty sure they weren't just star gazing," he pushed the key into the lock.

"Matthew!" she gasped, "really?"

"Almost certain," he stood back and let her step in first, "I've been waiting for it to happen."

"Oh," she let him help her out of the light jacket she wore, "do they know about us?"

"As far as I know they think I am just your landlord," he smirked, "but they don't know about the benefits."

"Cheek!" she kicked off her shoes, "and what benefits might they be?"

They had spent the past couple of evenings, since Alice moved in, getting to know each other, which involved talking, leading to kissing and a fair bit of touching but no further. Alice still slept in her room and Matthew in his, so 'benefits' was pushing it a bit.

There were learning more about each other's pasts, Alice's less than loving home life, that had Matthew wincing at some of the things she told him and Matthew's tales of his father gambling and drinking away his wages leaving his mother to feed the children as best she could while not eating herself filled her heart with sorrow, but somehow she understood that it had made Matthew the man he was.

He teased her about her lack of cooking skills and she suggested he teach her. In return she promised to show him more of the science that accompanied his cases, so he would know what she and Blake were talking about.

They had known each other since before Lucien came back, but until she had had to change the autopsy report that had Matthew asking Lucien to find a way to take over, she had kept herself to herself and almost hidden herself away in the morgue or the hospital laboratories. Once he had noticed her he couldn't stop noticing her. She was everywhere he went in the hospital - they passed in corridors, exchanged nods in greeting and the discussions in the morgue became deeper, even if Lucien was there. It was as if a higher being had decided that Matthew should have someone to love, and now they shared a house. No, not a house - a home.

"Honestly?" he asked.

"Honestly," she hummed.

"Well," he took a deep breath, "I just like it that you are here, in this house, _my_ house ... that we can spend evenings together ..."

"Really?" her eyes widened, "you like spending time with me?"

"Er, yeah," he blushed; it took a lot to make Matthew Lawson blush.

"Well, that's good, because I like spending time with you," and now it was her turn to blush.

"Oh, well, that's good then," he laughed and help out his hand, "in that case, Dr Harvey, may I wish you a Happy New Year, properly?"

"In what way would that be, Inspector Lawson?"

"Something like this," he pulled her towards him and ...

"Happy New Year, Matthew," she murmured, slightly breathless and a little pink.

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Mary and Sylvia started back at school, a year older and hopefully slightly wiser. Their closest friends were waiting for them at the front of school eager to see how Sylvia had survived being at the Blake's for Christmas and how Mary's eye was.

"That's fine," she smiled, "all clear, according to the specialist in Melbourne."

Sylvia hung back, wondering what kind of reception she would get, if the whole story had got round the town.

Christine and Sheila, the two other girls who had supported Mary over the turpentine incident, had met up during the Christmas holidays and vowed that they would support Sylvia, after all it wasn't her fault her mother was 'interstate'.

Christine put her arm around her waist and pulled her into the group, smiling.

"So," she laughed, "how was Christmas at Mary's?"

"It was lovely," she mumbled, "really nice, fun. Everyone is really kind ... " she inhaled "I wish all my Christmases had been like it." She blushed.

"She's going to stay with us," Mary reached over and squeezed her hand, "and we're glad to have you."

"Thanks, Mary." Sylvia thought that with these friends and the support of Mary's family she might survive the next few weeks, until term break, then she knew her living arrangements were to be reassessed. She rather hoped, if Mrs Beazley and Dr Blake didn't mind, that she could stay right where she was.

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Mary watched her mother and the doctor for signs they were actually courting and had not just given in to the merriment of the time, when she had seen them kissing in the sunroom. For the next couple of weeks all her attempts to catch them in something more than a professional discussion were for nothing. Jean carried on doing what she always did, running the house and seeing to the practice, Lucien continued attending police cases, suspicious and not so suspicious deaths, seeing his patients and they both kept an eye on gran'pa. It was most frustrating. All she wanted was a little sign.

Jean was aware of her daughter, watching, and it unnerved her. She put her concerns to Lucien one evening, while they were sitting with their drinks. Thomas and the girls were in bed so she felt she could talk to him, freely.

"Mary's watching us," she looked at him over the rim of her sherry glass.

"I'd noticed," he smirked.

"I told you," she sighed, "we need to keep it low, after ..."

"She gave Matthew the push he needed, to see Alice as more than a colleague." Lucien put his glass down and moved to join her on the couch. "We don't need that push, do we?"

"No, well I don't think so," she slipped closer and put her head on his shoulder, "it's just ... she's a romantic, at that age where everything is as it is in the movies or books."

"It will never be like that, Jean," he slipped his arm round her shoulders, "I want it to be better, more real, you deserve that. I can do the flowers, the chocolates, the sweet words, but I want it to be deeper than that, between us ... hell ... I'm not explaining myself very well, am I?"

"I think I understand," she stared into the fireplace, "you don't want to rush things, which is good, because rushing things didn't work for me, and, well, I don't know about you and Mei Lin ..."

"Looking back, it was a bit rushed, the courtship," he inhaled and let out the breath slowly, "in a way I was bamboozled. She was eager, I was not her first, it seemed ... I don't know. I suppose I was a means to an end, someone who was in the right place at the right time, and of the right social strata. But, there is one thing I am absolutely sure of, if I hadn't married her we wouldn't have had Li, and I would never have met you ... and that would be just terrible ... for me."

"And me," she whispered.

"Really? You mean ?"

"I do, I mean, I'm glad you came home," she stuttered afraid she was being too forward or obvious, "your father ... Li ... missed you."

"And you, Jean?"

"You forget, doctor, I only met you when you came home. Your father read your letters out loud ..."

"What did you think?"

"I knew you would come back, even when you wrote from the camp," she shifted to face him, "I thought you were strong, determined; that you would do everything in your power to help others. You were honest, in your letters, when you told of the happenings in Singapore and you sounded angry with your wife, that she wouldn't come over with Li."

"I was," he sighed, "Mei Lin was sleeping with my best friend ..."

Jean gasped.

"Sorry, perhaps I shouldn't have told you, but she was. The part that Li knows, that she was in the hospital when it was overrun, is true, but most of our marriage I won't tell her about." He reached for his drink and took a mouthful, "I was angry with Derek, too, I saved his life in the camp, even though he told me to leave him, but I didn't want him to die, because then he wouldn't feel the pain I did, I wanted him to live and suffer - was that wrong? Should I have let him go, would that have been right?" He ran his hand through his hair making it stand up in all directions. It made Jean smile, he looked like a lost little boy.

"You are a doctor," she reached over and touched his knee, "you save people, Lucien, you don't kill them, and in spite of what that man did to you, you would not let him die, just because you could. You did the right thing."

"I don't think he will ever forgive me," Lucien mused.

"That's his problem, Lucien, not yours," and the tone of her voice told him it was no longer up for discussion.

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And so life went on, though it irked the doctor that he couldn't court Jean properly. He couldn't take her for dinner in town, the occasional bunch of flowers was looked on as making amends for some mistake he had made and annoyed Jean, and her turning up at the station with biscuits for the officers was just Jean being Jean. Nobody turned a hair that it was when the doctor was heavily involved in a case she would bring more than biscuits and in one case, even a clean shirt.

"You've not been home for two days, doctor," she huffed, handing him the garment, "the girls are worried, and so am I," she added in a whisper.

Lucien pulled her down the stairs to a quiet corner, "we have to get this person, Jean," he hissed, "or nobody will be safe."

"You're a doctor not a police officer," she urged, "why do you have to stay?"

"We are uncovering evidence all the time," he handed her his jacket and waistcoat and slipped into a side room to change his shirt, "it's like a big puzzle," he came out again, tying his tie, "once Alice and I have put the pieces together we should have everything to point us to the gunman and maybe even his reasons."

She watched him replace his waistcoat and jacket, "so Alice has been here for two days as well?" she raised her eyebrows.

"Just about, though she did nip home to change, and Matthew made her take a couple of hours off to re-charge her batteries."

"But not you?" she drew her brows together.

"I can do all-nighters, Jean," he smiled and touched her arm, "I'll be home soon, we're close." He bent his head and kissed her softly thinking he had to make it up to her somehow.

"What is so different about this case, Lucien?" she continued probing, "I thought it was a single shooting."

"The slug we pulled from the dead man's chest was from a high powered sniper rifle. We can't even say who the victim is, he had no ID on him."

"Can I see him, I know most round here?"

"Jean ..."

"Lucien, if I can tell you who he is it might make it easier, may even make sense ... you don't usually mind me taking an interest."

He studied her; so often in the past she had offered a little nugget of information, an idea, sometimes off the cuff, and it was true, she was Ballarat born and bred.

"Come on then," he took her elbow, "over to the morgue."

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Jean looked at the man Lucien wheeled out of the fridge. A little older and with less hair but she recognised him, anyway.

"That's Gordon Wellaway," she sighed, "he lived above the bookseller's shop with his parents when I knew him. They left Ballarat half way through the war, Gordon joined up, I think, his parents ... I don't know. I don't even know why they left."

"Any other family?"

"I don't know," she pulled the sheet over his face, "I didn't know him that well, bit of a loner."

"Wouldn't Matthew know him, or Bill?"

"Unlikely," she shrugged, "as I said he was something of a loner, he didn't socialise with any of us."

"Well at least we know who he is now, Jean, thank you," he pushed the trolley back and closed the door. "We can look into army records, put out a call - you say he lived over the bookseller's?"

"Ah ha," she nodded, "it's still there. They aren't though."

"No, but there may be something that tells us where he went, or what regiment he joined."

"Maybe."

"I'll be home soon, Jean," he smiled and kissed her on the cheek.

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Mary noticed her mother was distracted over dinner. She had assured both girls that Lucien was fine, as was Uncle Matthew, but the case they were working on was difficult, and they understood. Thomas reminded the girls that Lucien tended to do more than your average police surgeon and was probably, even as he spoke, digging deep into the dead man's past.

This was the third dinner Lucien had missed, thereby the third evening she would not sit by his side in the studio after everyone else had gone to bed, and Jean was feeling it - lonely. She couldn't remember the last time she felt this lonely. Perhaps it was because she didn't have time to feel that way before, but these days life had begun to go smoothly and she had time to relax more. That, and she had a feeling this case was more than it appeared - for once Jean was worried.

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Mary helped her wash up, while Thomas sat with Li in the study and listened to her practice her French.

"Are you ok, mum?"' she asked.

"Yes, fine, why?" Jean didn't turn her head, just kept her eyes fixed on the plate she was cleaning.

"You were rather quiet at dinner," Mary continued, "distracted."

"Oh, it's nothing," she laughed half heartedly.

"It's Uncle Lucien, isn't it? This case ..."

"Mary ..." Jean wanted to tell her it was nothing to worry about, Uncle Lucien was well able to take care of himself, but found herself stuck for words. "... he is determined to find out why this man was killed. He knows who it is now, I identified the body for him ..."

"You went to the morgue?" Mary gasped.

"I've lived here all my life I just wondered if he was someone I might have known, from the past ... and he was, someone from my early years."

"That's got to help. hasn't it?"

"I hope so, it gives him something to work with, anyway."

"It still worries you, though, doesn't it?" her daughter stopped drying the plate she was holding, "that he could get hurt."

"I worry about all of them, in these kind of cases, Mary," Jean leant on the edge of the sink, "only one man has died but they don't know why or who killed him and have no idea where to go from here."

"Well, as you say, they now know who he was, so perhaps things will come together."

"Let's hope so, now, these dishes won't wash themselves ..."

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They had found nothing at the old flat above the shop. It was now empty, used more for storage than anything. They had even lifted some of the floor boards in what was the smallest bedroom, assuming it was Gordon's when he was young. They were back to scratching their heads.

"There must be something out at the site," Lucien growled, looking over the map on Matthew's desk, "I want to go back out there."

"Doc," Bill tried to reason with him, "we've scoured the place with a fine toothed comb, there's nothing there."

"Dammit!" he slammed his hand down on the desk, "there has to be something!"

"Blake!" Matthew glared at him.

"It was a single shot, from a high powered rifle," Lucien paced the room, his thumb and forefinger to his forehead, "so, given the way he lay, when he was found we need to trace a line back to where a shot could have been fired from."

Having no other ideas they would have to try it. Matthew held out little hope but at this stage of the game ...

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Gordon Wellaway's body had been found outside the town, in full sight of the road but not on the verge. There was very little in the way of vegetation or cover for anyone so Lucien wondered how the sniper had concealed himself. He had Bill, who was of a similar height to Wellaway, lie on the ground using the crime photographs as reference, then, working on the way he was twisted had him stand again with his back to the road. Shielding his eyes against the sun he scanned the area.

"There," he pointed in the direction of a small building in the distance.

"It's a heck of a way away," Matthew grumbled.

"Good rifle, good sniper ..." Blake shrugged and stepped out in the lead.

"Wait!" Matthew grabbed his shoulder, "what if he's still there?"

"We'll soon find out," Lucien pulled away and carried on, but Matthew noticed he didn't walk in a straight line. He told Bill to do the same and to keep a distance between himself and Blake.

"Smaller targets, Bill," he muttered.

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They had gone far enough to see that the building appeared to be a shed, tin roof one door and a window, or space for one, anyway. Lucien stopped wishing he had brought some binoculars with him.

"That'll be where the shot came from," he turned back to speak to Matthew and as he did so a shot rang out and dust flew up a few feet in front of him.

"Bloody hell!" he jumped.

"Blake!"

"If he wanted to kill me he would have done so," Lucien regained his composure and wondered, briefly, how much he would tell Jean, when, and if, he got home in one piece.

"You don't think Wellaway's murder was just to get you, do you?" Matthew stared at him.

"I bloody hope not," he grunted, "I would prefer a knock at the door."

"Who have you upset?"

"Since when, Matthew," Lucien shoved his hands in his pockets, aware they were all right in the line of fire, "since I came back or before?"

Matthew didn't think he had upset anyone lately, since his return, that much they would want to kill him and take another, presumably innocent, life to bring him out into the open to do so.

"I suppose we have to get to this drongo to find out."

Lucien turned back to face the shed had held his hands up in surrender, which Matthew and Bill both knew was not his intention. Matthew nodded to Bill to have his gun ready, out of his shoulder holster, and to widen the space between them. His idea was that they would try to go to the side and round the back of the building while the shooter was concentrating on keeping the doctor in his sights. Assuming there was only one.

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In the shed the sniper continued to train his sight on Dr Blake, the other two he would deal with in time, they were only local coppers, with no knowledge of army tactics, or so he thought, and even if they did, as long as he took Blake with him he didn't care. His aim was not to shoot Blake outright, but to make him understand why he had to die. A grudge born for a lifetime.

"You!" Lucien called out, "you in there! I'm unarmed!"

His call was met with silence.

"Well," Lucien hummed to himself, "either you don't believe me, in which case you are ex-army, or you really want me - face to face." He slowly advanced, wondering what Jean would do if she were there, or what she would say. She'd be cross, like she was when he ripped his suit trousers climbing a fence, or when he waded into Lake Wendouree to retrieve a body. He liked that, that she would chastise him for such actions, Mei Lin would not have bothered, they had staff to deal with things like that, he thought he preferred Jean for that, it showed she cared, was deeper than she seemed. Smart too, smarter than he was, or ever could be.

Lucien was at the front of the shed now. The rifle swung, indicating he was to enter.

He did so.

"You took your time, I thought you were cleverer than that," a voice grumbled from the darkness, a voice he remembered.

"Derek Alderton," Lucien lowered his arms, "well, well, well, what do you want?"

"You never loved her."

"Mei Lin? I did, so did you." Lucien's eyes began to adjust to the low light. "I knew, Derek, knew for a long time. What I don't understand is why you didn't propose before I did."

"You were a Major before me," Alderton grunted, "Old man Chen, he wouldn't accept anything less. You were also a gifted linguist, socially above me ..."

"Reverse snobbery, Derek?" Lucien folded his arms, "now, what is this all about, surely not Mei Lin?"

"You were supposed to keep her safe," Alderton growled.

"And if she had come to Ballarat, with Li, she would have been, but she wouldn't," Lucien reasoned, "probably because of you, because she wanted to stay where she could have both of us. Killing me won't bring her back, all it will do is leave a ten year old an orphan "

"Why did you let her work in the hospital, out in the open ...?"

"Surprising as it may seem, she wanted to. We, you and I, were both engaged in our duties, she was bored."

"It was dangerous."

"For god's sake, Derek! the house was razed to the ground, she wouldn't have stood a chance there, either! We can't change the past, bring back those we loved, all we can do is make the future a better one for those who made it to live in. Put the rifle down, Derek, let me take you in and see if we can't ..."

"Can't what!?" Alderton yelled, "neither of us are leaving here alive, Blake!"

"Drop it!" Matthew's voice cut through the air, "now!"

Alderton turned and in that millisecond Lucien took advantage and launched himself at his former friend. He barrelled into him, the rifle fell to the ground firing off a shot as it did and the two men landed in a tangled heap. Somewhere Lucien felt the burning of a bullet as he struggled with Derek, the pounding of boots on the old floorboards echoed and suddenly he felt himself being lifted off his adversary.

"Got him, Bill?!" Matthew shouted.

"Got him, boss!" and the sound of handcuffs closing accompanied Bill's satisfied growl.

As Matthew hauled Lucien up the doctor let out a yell.

"You hit?!"

"Arm," he gasped, clutching his left hand over his right upper arm, "bloody hell," he ground out between gritted teeth.

"Can't see a damn thing in here," Matthew hissed, "let's get you outside and have a gander."

Outside Matthew took a closer look at Lucien's arm.

"Through and through, doc," he murmured, "here," he pulled out his handkerchief and ripped the jacket sleeve from the bullet hole. He wrapped his handkerchief round the arm over the wound and rolled the sleeve over it. He secured it with his tie then used Lucien's tie to fashion a sling.

"Right, let's get back," Matthew kept his gun trained on Alderton, while Bill frog-marched him and carried the rifle.

Nothing was said on the trek back to the car, Lucien wondered what had brought Derek to conclude he had to kill him over Mei Lin's death. They had spoken in the camp but not much, he had not even told him he knew Derek was sleeping with his wife. Thinking about why Derek had clearly gone over the edge kept his mind off the stinging and grinding ache in his arm. Jean was not going to be pleased, not pleased at all.

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Mary watched the patrol car fly by. She thought she had seen Uncle Lucien in the front seat, but it went by at such speed ...

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They took Alderton up to the interview room and handcuffed him to a chair. Lucien, by now was dizzy with the pain from the wound to his arm, slumped into a chair on the opposite side of the table. Knowing he would want to be in on the interview, Matthew asked one of the junior constables to ask Dr Harvey if she would kindly attend the station and bring a first aid kit with her. As the young man left he whispered that he should suggest she also bring a local anaesthetic and stitching equipment. The constable raised his eyebrows, but his was not to reason why.

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Across in the hospital lab, Dr Harvey was writing up some notes on an autopsy she had performed, and concluded that death was due to cirrhosis of the liver. The patient had been a heavy drinker since leaving the army and had effectively drunk himself to death. She was sorry that it had come to this, no-one should feel that drowning their sorrows was the only way to forget the horrors of war. She lifted the phone almost absent-mindedly and listened to the stuttering of the young constable.

"Stitches?" she tutted, "why on earth ...?"

"Dunno, the Inspector just said anaesthetic and stitches," he shrugged.

"I'll be right there." She put the phone down and collected the equipment she needed wondering if it was Matthew or Lucien or Bill who needed medical attention; perhaps it was the suspect. "Well," she muttered to herself, "I suppose I'll find out soon enough."

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"Ah, Dr Harvey," Matthew smiled, "good. Dr Blake here has a bullet wound to the arm - through and through."

He sounded matter of fact as he waved in Lucien's direction.

"Dr Blake," she huffed, "I don't know what your father is going to say, or your daughter for that matter," she didn't add that Jean was unlikely to be able to repair the jacket.

"Er, right ..." he hummed and swallowed.

"Let me take a look," she stepped towards him and undid the tie Matthew had used. It was now soaked in blood, dried and stiff. Carefully, she removed the rest of the dressing, patently ignoring the gasps of pain Lucien emitted.

It didn't take her long to anaesthetise, stitch up and dress Lucien's arm, then have him rest it in a proper sling. Now the interview could start in earnest.

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"Now, Major Alderton," Matthew started, pen ready to take down any notes, "I do not believe you would shoot a man in cold blood just to get Dr Blake to come to you, so you could kill him, over the sad demise of his wife, Mei Lin. So, what's the real story?"

Alderton sat with his arms folded and said nothing.


	16. Chapter 16

The bright lights of the interview room hurt Derek's eyes and the pounding in his head distorted his hearing. The voices were muffled yet echoed, he screwed his face up in concentration.

Lucien watched him, there was something about Alderton that bothered him, over and above the idea that he wanted him dead. When they had been released they had gone their own ways not even to the same hospitals, never to see each other again, or so Lucien had hoped.

"Major Alderton," Matthew's voice cut through his thoughts and the fog, "why did you kill Gordon Wellaway?"

"Uh," he blinked, " Major Derek Alderton, 3rd Regiment, 4th Division, army number 143079." He sat up straighter as if a light had gone on in his head.

"Quite," Matthew huffed, "now, Wellaway?"

Alderton reeled off his name, rank and number but said nothing else. Matthew changed his question.

"Who was Gordon Wellaway to you?"

Again, name rank and number.

Matthew sat back in his chair and looked at Lucien.

"Derek," Lucien leant forward on his uninjured arm, "I really don't believe you would shoot someone just to get at me, especially as I didn't know the man."

Alderton started to reel off again.

"Yes, yes," Lucien waved his hand, "we know all that, what I want to know is why you are after me, if indeed that is what you are after?"

Alderton's eyes appeared to glaze over and he slumped again. Lucien wondered, he seemed to be fading in and out of reality. He stood up, mentally going through the injuries Derek had sustained during their time in the camp, he didn't remember a specific head injury but that wasn't to say it hadn't happened. Derek didn't appear to notice the movement.

"Torch, Matthew," Blake muttered, again Alderton didn't move. Matthew passed his torch over and Lucien waved it across his face, then into his left eye. Nothing, there was pupil reaction but nothing from Derek, most people would have blinked and flinched, but Alderton did neither.

"Inspector Lawson," Lucien handed the torch back and sat back down, "I would like the Major to be admitted to hospital under guard, I think there is more to this case than we know."

"Doctor?"

"Oh, I don't dispute that he shot Wellaway, neither, I think, does he, it's the reason behind it. I should like an x-ray of his head and to have his medical records sent over from the army. There's something that bothers me."

"Right," Matthew scratched his head, "well, I suppose you will have to make arrangements ..."

"I'll ring the hospital," Lucien stood up, "back in a tick."

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The hospital room was guarded by two of Matthew's burliest officers and any medical staff that went in were escorted by another, until soldiers from the Sturt Street barracks could be assigned the duty.

X-rays were taken of Alderton's head, he offered no resistance to this or to being dressed in a hospital gown. He was handcuffed to the bed, for everybody's protection and his own.

Alice and Lucien both studied the x-rays. There were small lesions all over the pictures which they determined were bleeds to the brain, old and possibly new ones. "

"No fractures though, Dr Harvey," Lucien observed, "apart from these two very old ones, sustained during the war, possibly, in the camp? I didn't have access to x-rays, fractures were diagnosed by touch."

"Which you couldn't do with a skull fracture, could you?"

"No, all head injuries were treated as skull fractures, observation, the usual tests and as much rest as I could get away with," Lucien agreed, "limbs were much easier to deal with."

"So, all you can do is wait for his records," she pulled the films off the light box and put them back in the envelope.

"Yes."

"I'd get home if I were you," she smiled, "I'm sure Jean and the family will have something to say about your escapades."

"Erm, yes, you're probably right."

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Alice drove him home, telling him that he would have trouble controlling the car with his injured arm, she also wanted to be sure he got home, and didn't detour via the club, for some Dutch courage - though she didn't tell him that.

Jean looked up from where she was re-arranging appointments and gasped. Lucien's jacket sleeve was torn, he had a dressing on his bicep and the whole arm was supported by a sling.

"What have you been doing?" she went to him, "Lucien! has somebody shot you?"

"Er, well," he ran his hand over his head, a sure sign he was nervous, "the gun went off, it wasn't aimed at me, not at that moment ... er ... I should sit down."

"The bullet went right through, Jean," Alice started to explain, "I believe they found who shot Wellaway."

Jean helped him out of his jacket, finishing the rip to the sleeve, perhaps the tailor could repair it or more likely put a new sleeve in.

"Tea, I think," she held her hand on his back, "sweet tea ... Alice," she looked up, "do you think ...?!

"Eh? Oh ... yes ... of course ..." Alice coughed suddenly realising she was not needed just at that moment, in that room, "tea, hm, no milk, Lucien?"

"Yes, er no ... no milk, thank you," he hummed, the warmth of Jean's hand soothing his shattered nerves.

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"Lucien," Jean moved to stand in front of him, "what happened?"

"I, we went to where Wellaway's body was found, I was sure, Jean," he looked at her, "sure ..."

"Mum?" Mary appeared at the doorway, "what ...? Uncle Lucien," she hurried to him, "oh god, you're hurt!"

"Sh, Mary," he hissed, "I don't want to alarm Li, or father. I'm fine, just a flesh wound, Dr Harvey has cleaned and stitched it - more damage to my jacket."

"They're going to notice a sling," she huffed.

"Mary, will you go to his room and fetch a clean shirt," Jean looked past Lucien, "if you change and hide the bandage ..."

"Yes, of course," she scurried away leaving Jean to wonder about him taking his shirt off in front of her, though she had seen him in his singlet before.

"Right," he took a deep breath, "better get out of this shirt ... um, d'ye think you could help, Jean, only I need to support my arm and I shall have to take off the sling ..." his voice tailed off.

She drew her brows together, "perhaps it would be better if we wait for Mary to bring in the shirt, then I can close the door."

"Eh?"

"I don't want her to see me helping you undress, Lucien," she whispered, "goodness knows what she will think, given her past match-making efforts."

"Ah, yes, right," he stuttered, "but I do have a bullet wound ..." he raised his eyebrows.

"That's to one arm, doctor," she huffed, "you have two."

He swiftly wrapped his uninjured arm round her, "like this," he teased and planted a quick kiss on her cheek.

"Lucien," she hissed, "behave." She pushed him gently away as the sound of footsteps approached the door.

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"I suppose I can forgo the tie," he watched her fasten the buttons on the clean shirt, "a cardigan?"

"Well, you're not going out anywhere, are you? And you've no patients, I've reorganised your appointments ..." she looked up into his blue eyes, "but you need to tuck your shirt in."

He unfastened the waistband of his trousers and successfully tucked his shirt in, without help, he reasoned to himself that was a step too far for Jean, but he did need help fastening the clip. Jean blushed as she completed that small task then leant her head against his chest.

"I'm sorry Jean," he murmured into her hair, "I've made work for you."

"It's not that, Lucien," she sniffed into his shirt, "you've been shot," she looked up at him, "what if he had been aiming true?"

Alice chose that moment to call that the tea was getting cold. She had planned to take it into the surgery but Mary had held her back, suggesting the living room might be the best place.

"We'll talk tonight," he assured her as she put the sling round his neck, "I'll tell you all about it."

"Promise?"

"Promise," he kissed her forehead.

"I want the truth, mind you," she squeezed his hand, "no fobbing me off."

Feeling a little like he had been caught with his hand in the sweetie jar he agreed.

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Lucien managed to brush off the wound when cornered by his daughter, saying it was only a flesh wound and it would soon mend.

"A gun went off, accidentally," he patted her cheek, "nothing to worry about."

"If you're sure, papa," Li searched his face for any sign of pain or worry.

"I am, darling girl," he smiled, "now, how was your day?"

And so he diverted her thoughts to maths and science and promised he would hear her read later.

Thomas did not believe him, not for one minute, and cornered him in the study when he went to get some more pain relief.

"Son," he leant heavily on his stick in the doorway, "what happened?"

"Dad, it's ok," he smiled, "really. Alderton's gun went off when I tackled him, nothing to worry about. He wasn't going to shoot me, well not until he had told me why. Matthew disturbed him and he took his eye off the target - me - so I took my chance."

"Lucien ..." Thomas sighed, "I've only just got you back, son ..."

"... and I'm not going anywhere anytime soon," Lucien swallowed the pills and smiled. "Now, dinner smells splendid, and I'm famished ..."

"Lucien ..."

"Dad, don't worry," he put his hand on Thomas' shoulder, "I have something worth living for these days, I'm not going to set myself up as a target for any Tom, Derek or Harry with a rifle."

"Glad to hear it," though he wasn't sure it wouldn't happen again.

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When the girls and Thomas had gone to bed, Li had been read to, which Jean thought was just a ploy to make sure her father really was alright; Jean and Lucien sat down in the studio with their evening drinks. Lucien knew he had worried Jean, this was the first time he had come home with a gunshot wound and even though it had only gone through his arm and missed vital blood vessels he knew it could have been much worse. While she had told him she would never get used to him coming home with cuts and bruises -

"- after all, **doctor** ," it was the force with which she uttered the word 'doctor', "you are not a police officer, you are there to determine time and cause of death, not to wade in and take such punches that are thrown." This after a particularly nasty punch-up outside one of the pubs one evening. Lucien had been called to give medical assistance to a customer at the Pig and Whistle who had had an altercation with the landlord. It had all gone wrong when two other customers, well lubricated with beer, had waded in and punches had been thrown. Lucien had blocked one punch with his forearm but others had been landed and he had been rather bruised when he arrived home - they were preferable to a bullet wound, if he had to come home damaged in any way at all!

"So, Lucien," she sat on the couch, "what really happened?"

"You know we have been trying to work out why Wellaway was killed, and you know he was found outside town ..." he watched, she waited. "We were stumped so, and I hold my hands up, it was my idea ..."

"Oh, Lucien," she sighed.

"... right," he cleared his throat, "well, I suggested we go back out to the site and have another look round."

"There's nothing out there except ... the old tin shed!" she took a mouthful of sherry and held out her glass to be refilled.

"Yes, the old tin shed," he refilled his own glass as well as hers, "as you know it was a sniper rifle that was used and it seemed like that might have been where the shot was fired from. So, we, that is, Matthew, Bill and I, started to walk over ..."

He told the tale of how a shot had been fired and he had challenged the gunman, and had gone inside.

"Derek Alderton, the man who ... yes well, let's not go over that ... blames me for her death and wanted to have it out with me before he put a bullet in my brain. Matthew broke his concentration, told him to drop the gun. I 'waded' in ..."

"...oh Lucien," she put her hand over her mouth, "you could have been killed!"

"...heat of the moment, Jean. That was when the gun went off ... Derek's in hospital, there's something wrong. He kept fading in and out in the interview, we took x-rays and there appears to be evidence of little bleeds on his brain. They could be mini-strokes, or the results of head injuries, I don't know."

"Lucien," it came out as a whispered gulp.

"I'm sorry, Jean, I've upset you ... frightened you, I don't know what else we could have done. Matthew and Bill were both armed ..."

"But that would have made no difference if he had shot at you before you went into the building," her hands were shaking as she put her glass down, "I don't think I could take that, I know I couldn't."

He reached over with his good arm and encouraged her to lean against him, Mei Lin had never shown she cared this much and though it made him feel warm it was not right that he should put Jean through this.

"Please, Lucien," she sniffed from the warmth of his chest, "promise me you won't do such a thing again."

"I would like to promise you that Jean, of course I would, but ... I don't think I can," he stroked her shoulder, "I will do my best, but ... as you pointed out; when I wondered if I should have let Derek die; I save lives, not take them."

"You don't have to stand in the path of a bullet, though," she pushed herself up, "please Lucien, think of Li ..."

"I think of all of you, Jean, you are all my family ... to willingly allow someone to take my life would be selfish, hurting my family like that - wrong. I don't know how to explain it, when I left the camp all I thought of was finding Li, and instead I found a whole family, friends; a whole new life which you are the centre of." He lifted his legs so they were lying side by side, her snuggled up against him ,securely caught between his body and the back of the couch.

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She woke some time later, a steady thumping in her ear and a warmth to her side. She pushed up and blushed beetroot red to see Lucien with a smug grin on his face.

"I didn't want to wake you," he smiled, "you looked so comfortable there, and it felt rather nice." He blushed at his admission.

"Thank heavens everybody else is asleep," she whispered, "I can't imagine what Mary would have said if she had found us here." She pushed his legs down and sat up properly, "I'd better go to bed, so had you."

"Oh, right," he gave a cheeky grin.

"Our own beds," she said sternly, "really, Lucien." She tossed her head as she stood up, "goodnight, doctor."

"Good night, Jean," he smiled, "sorry."

"Huh," but with her back to him he couldn't see the faintly wicked smirk on her face..

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Major Alderton's army medical records were waiting for Lucien when Jean dropped him off at the hospital the next morning. She hadn't wanted him out of her sight and at the same time knew he had to find out what was wrong with Derek. He assured her his arm was less painful than it had been and there were guards outside the room, no one was allowed in without an armed escort.

"Though, truthfully, Jean," he sighed, "I doubt anyone of us is in mortal danger."

"Lucien, he ..." she handed him his bag, "wants to kill you."

"He's not in his right mind, Jean," he murmured, "he won't hurt me, I think he's very ill. The bleeds to the brain ... not good."

"I know, just ... be careful, please."

"I will," he resisted the temptation to lean in for, even a chaste, kiss, there were too many people around.

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"Comfortable night, doctor," Sister informed him, "slept well, didn't seem bothered by the handcuffs ..."

"Thank you, Sister," he took the records from her, "let's go and see what he remembers of yesterday, why he is here and his opinion of me, shall we?"

Two soldiers now stood where Matthew's officers had stood outside the door. One opened the door and followed Lucien and the nurse through.

"You are to be guarded, too, Dr Blake," he murmured.

"Of course," he nodded, "now, Major Alderton, he became the cheerful and caring country doctor, "how are we feeling this morning?"

Alderton pulled on the handcuffs and growled, "if I wasn't tied to this bed I'd show you."

"Really? Well, now, do you remember what happened yesterday?" Lucien decided to ignore the threat.

"Major Derek Alderton, ..."

"Don't start that again, Derek, you aren't being held by foreign nationals on a spying charge, we want to help you."

"Major Derek ..."

"Alderton, yes I know," Lucien approached the bed, "3rd Regiment, 4th Division, army number 143079: about yesterday."

Alderton had known Lucien for long enough to know he would persist with his questioning, wear him down until he answered the questions. And Lucien did just that, never let him get his full name, rank and number out, always returned to the question of 'yesterday', even the nurse began to get tired of hearing the same thing, over and over again. Alderton faded in and out on occasion, snarled at his former comrade, but refused point blank to say anything useful.

Lucien huffed.

"Mei Lin always said you were tenacious bugger - that how you won her over, wore her down?"

"You leave her out of it!" Alderton shouted. "She has nothing to do with this."

"That's not what you said yesterday," Lucien sauntered around the room with his hands in his pockets, "in fact," he stared out of the window, "you blamed me for her death."

"All your fault, and you should pay!"

"You know fine well I wanted her to come over to Australia, with Li, and stay with my father," Lucien turned round and glared, "but she wouldn't, and I believe it was because of you. However, **Major,"** he continued, "I am not willing to air my dirty laundry here, or anywhere, to be perfectly frank, those who need to know, do so. If this is really all about getting me then I am sorry for you, sorry that you shot an innocent man in order to flush me out into the open. It's a feeble excuse, even for you, so what is it you want from me?"

Derek opened his mouth and closed it immediately, deciding that his usual reply was a waste of breath.

Lucien decided to give up on the interview, such as it was, and started to read the notes sent over by the army medics. They made interesting reading.

It would appear that Major Alderton had been offered retirement on medical grounds but had refused it, insisting he was perfectly fit and healthy. His time in the camp and the injuries sustained at the hands of the guards, particularly the one Lucien had sewn up, was reason enough for him to go and settle somewhere quietly and find a hobby. Derek was army through and through, he had never trained as anything else, had no particular skills other than those that required him to fight an enemy and to train others to do the same. He was no diplomat, no spy, so he had been given an administration role.

Lucien found nothing in his notes about lapses, fugues or a desire to murder his former colleagues. Surely these episodes had not gone unnoticed?

Derek watched him, through something of a fog, but through that fog he still hated Lucien, still blamed him for Mei Lin's death and a large part of him wanted to put a bullet in his brain, but, Lucien was right, that wasn't the sole reason for finding him. He needed his expertise, his knowledge of the Chen family, the wider family and, although Mei Lin and her father were gone he may still have contacts to others.

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Derek had never really trusted Mei Lin's father, how he managed to keep his import business going the way he did. He had often wondered if Lucien had anything to do with the success and that was why Mei Lin had been pointed towards him. Even when the Japanese were advancing towards Singapore his business didn't falter and after Mei Lin's death, after the city was overrun, he disappeared. No record was found of his capture, or his death and the Chen empire had gone underground. There were whisperings that he had gone over to the other side and just recently an import business, under the same name, had come out into the open. Derek was sure that if he could find evidence of subversive goings on, possibly spying or illegal migration the army would see he still had value. Unfortunately the foggy episodes and blank moments meant he wasn't able to think clearly and he needed Lucien to help him, but he also didn't want him to go on with his happy life. Wellaway had been useful.

Alderton had been looking to find someone who could spy on the doctor, find out what he was doing here in Ballarat, and he was disappointed that a talented linguist who could use those talents to integrate himself into high society for espionage was exactly what he seemed - the caring country doctor. Wellaway, a former private in the same unit as Derek, had started to demand more money for his services, threatened to go to Dr Blake and tell him what the Major was up to, so, having got all he would get he had lured him out to the spot where he was found. It was a shame, he thought, Wellaway would have been good in espionage, bland, quiet, hardly noticeable in a crowd but he couldn't allow Blake to find out he was being spied on before he had the chance to confront him. At the moment he was reluctant to pull Blake into his scheming, this latest episode with his head had been one of the worst. He had all but ignored the missing moments, decided he could not to go to the medics because he knew they would force him into retirement, but now he had a feeling he had to get this sorted out - it was now urgent that he find out if this Chen was connected in any way to Mei Lin and why they had suddenly reappeared. He had hoped that Lucien would give enough information about Chen then planned to shoot him, inform the authorities and take his own life - put himself out of his misery.

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Matthew and Bill had gone back out to the old tin shed to see if Alderton had hidden anything there that would give them some idea what the Major was up to. They knew there was a bedroll but had not done anything about it the previous day.

They swung torches round the dark inside. The bedroll was stowed in a corner with a primus stove, kit bag and enough food to last another day or so. Bill pulled the bedroll outside and they inspected the floor for loose boards under which may be hidden a clue to Alderton's reason for luring Blake out there. Unstable as the floor was, with rotting boards and rusting nails, there didn't appear to be one that had been lifted to allow for the secret storage of a diary or notes. They took the bedroll and other gear outside and put it on the backseat of the police car then went back in again to further check for hidey holes in the walls. Nothing, so all they could do was take the bedroll back to the station and examine it in comfort.

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In one of the interview rooms Matthew and Bill carefully unrolled the standard issue sleeping bag on a table.

"Bill," Matthew nodded to the kit bag, "you start on that and I'll do the mat and sleeping bag."

"Boss," Bill agreed.

They worked in silence for some time; Bill taking each item out of the kit bag, shaking it out to see if there was anything hidden then examining the shaving kit and other non clothes items for hollow handles or spaces things could be secreted; Matthew checking the edges of the sleeping mat for signs of openings, breaks in the stitching - anywhere a notebook could be slipped in and hidden.

Matthew had all but given up on the sleeping mat when he came across a neat bit of stitching, about three inches long. It was hardly noticeable and ruefully he thought the Major could give Jean a run for her money in sewing. He slit it open with his penknife and found a piece of string. The string was attached to a bag which turned out to be attached to another, and another - they all came out like the carriages on a child's train set - one after the other.

"Hey, Bill!" he called over, "have a look at this."

"Bloody hell," Bill scratched his head, "sneaky bugger!"

"Isn't he," Matthew loosened the drawstring on each bag and took out three small notebooks. Flicking one open Matthew grimaced, "code," he grunted, "I should have known."

"D'ye think Blake'll know," Bill turned one of the books round in his hand, as if another view would help.

"Well, they were in the army together, he might," Matthew agreed, noting his find down on the evidence sheet, "let's see if there's any more before we tackle him on it."

"Right."

Bill checked the kit bag for similar traces of hiding places, scrutinising all the seams but found nothing. In the end they decided that the Major had put all his notebooks together, which, to Matthew, was further evidence that the man was slowly losing his mind. Any spy worth his salt would have hidden each book in a separate place, assuming all three were needed to present the whole picture.

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Lucien called in at the station to tell Matthew he had had no luck getting anything useful out of Alderton and to see if they had found anything interesting at the shed.

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They tried all the 'simple' codes: mirror writing, one letter out, using Z for A, Y for B and so on, missing vowels (a non starter) finding the most commonly used letter and substituting it with E, the most commonly used letter in the English language; but nothing made sense.

"It's got to be something simple," Lucien rocked back on his chair, "something to do with the spelling, I mean, here he's put an extra 'i' in 'in'."

"If you go by that logic and take the 'e' from in front of this word you get 'seen'," Matthew pointed, "but this one M-C-H-E-N makes no sense at all."

"Hang on," Lucien took the first three words and took out the first letter of each and got 'Chen seen in ...' then took out every fourth letter, and revealed 'Singapore'.

"Chen seen in Singapore?" Bill grunted, "who, or what, is Chen?"

"Chen was Mei Lin's name before we married, I can only assume Alderton is referring to her father or a family member," Blake informed them, "but, if you look here, the letters spell her name. By that token ..." he looked at the next few words and saw that every fourth letter made up Mei Lin. He had inserted the letters into the words to make his own code up. "I think I was meant to break this code," Lucien mused, "it's too easy, for me, anyway."

"We'll leave it to you then, doc," Bill grinned.

"Right," Lucien picked up the diaries and headed into the side office to start.

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"Right!" Lucien strode into Derek's room with a soldier in tow, "ludicrous, I don't know where you got this idea from." He stood at the end of the bed and stared at the Major.

"They're up to something," Derek blustered, "he ..."

"Fu Chen was an importer of fine fabrics - silks and what not," Lucien huffed, "true he did branch out into iron and steel as war loomed, but it was only a side concern. We wouldn't have been able to build the harbour without some of his contacts. He always planned to go back to his original line ..." he thought for a moment, "I heard nothing from him after Mei Lin was killed, I assumed he had died. Chen is not an uncommon name, Derek, in that part of the world."

Derek glared at him.

"Derek," Lucien sat on the edge of the bed, "Fu Chen was an honourable man. Now, I can make enquiries and see if it is the same family, but, truly, I think you are way off track with this. He had nothing to do with who Mei Lin married, that was her decision, and hers alone."

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Lucien had few contacts in Singapore, now, but perhaps he could find someone who was left from the old days. He explained everything to Jean and his father after dinner, saying he may have to take a trip.

"It's a long shot," he stared into his glass, "but it would prove to Alderton that Chen was what I believed him to be, honourable. If he isn't, or wasn't, well it's nothing to do with me, not now."

"What will you do, if you find it is the same family, or that they are not 'honourable'?" Jean asked.

"If it is just smuggling goods, nothing, that's not for me to decide, if it is illegal immigrants I am honour bound to let the authorities know, then I shall come home and forget all about it," he smiled softly at her, "if I do nothing, Derek will continue to worry at it, and he will come after me again."

"Couldn't you let the army know?" Thomas questioned the idea of his son going away again.

"We'll keep Derek in hospital, I shan't be away more than a couple of weeks," Lucien assured them, "then I shall suggest perhaps a place where he will be safe and looked after. These mini strokes he is having, more and more each day, will take him sooner rather than later."

"Will that keep you safe, too?" Jean edged closer to him on the couch, "will it prevent him from taking pot shots at you?"

"There are some very secure places, Jean," he put his arm around her, "he won't be allowed further than the garden - high fence around it - I shall be safe, _we_ shall be safe."

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Two days later, after Lucien had convinced Alderton to stay where he was while he went to Singapore, Jean and the girls watched Lucien board a plane at Melbourne airport. They waved him off with cheery smiles that he returned, and waited until the plane had disappeared into the sky.


	17. Chapter 17

Sorry for the delay in updating this story. Work is getting in the way, I only have snatches of time to write. I hope this makes up for the silence.

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"Singapore seems to be getting itself back together," Lucien's letter read, "the water and electricity is up and running and the harbour is under reconstruction."

"That sounds positive, anyway," Jean looked up from reading the thin airmail paper, "he says he has found a good hotel, and his language skills are holding up."

"Well," Thomas hummed, "he's been gone over a week, I hope he's found out something about the Chens."

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As soon as he landed, Lucien had sent a telegram to tell his family he was safe and well and that he would write soon. He had determined he would settle into his hotel and immediately go on the search for Chen, or rather the import/export business Derek was so sure was a front for illegal immigration and drug trafficking. He decided the authorities would be a good place to start but found them unhelpful in the extreme and afterwards decided he was being followed. He took a couple of days off, headed over to where his house used to stand and where he had spent his days before the war, with his friends and his wife. It had been cleared of all debris and was now just a site to be built on. He had no claim to the land that he wanted to pursue and walked sadly away. One day, perhaps, when Li was older he would bring her back to the country of her birth, but until then this would be his only visit.

He strolled through a market, fingering bolts of silk and noting one of the suppliers were Chen. He had half expected it, after all it was what his father in law had made his money through. He chose three half bolts, one in a light blue-green for Jean, one in a blue-grey for Mary and a darker blue-green changeable silk for Li. He was sure Jean would be able to make something rather special for them all with them and chose the colours that he thought would suit each one the best, though he wasn't sure about buying such a gift for his housekeeper; even if they were 'courting'.

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After dinner, Lucien retired to his room to read the labels on the silks he had bought. There was an address for the company and he thought this a good place to start. He made his plans for the following day and wrote his letter to Jean and the family. He missed them, more than he thought he would after such a short time, Ballarat really was his home, now.

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He found the silk importers easily, so if it was an undercover operation they were hiding in plain sight. It was busy, very busy. Workers rushed hither and thither, carrying one thing to one place and returning with another. There were crates and boxes, sacks and open packages, all neatly stacked. He remembered his father in law's warehouses just so, it was all rather familiar. He was not looked upon strangely, perhaps they were used to westerners arriving, doing business with the boss. He hailed a passing worker and asked where he could find the owner of the business.

He could tell his command of the language surprised the man and he was taken straight to the office. It was set high above the main open space and was walled with glass, presumably to ensure a watch could be kept on the goings on in the warehouse. There was a young girl at a desk, a secretary, pretty in an efficient kind of way. She eyed him up and down and sighed. Another one, she thought wanting something for nothing, or a shady deal. Well it was up to the boss to deal with that. She asked him his name and told him to take a seat while she went to see if Mr Chen would see him.

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Mr Chen looked up from his desk as the secretary entered. He knew that look, another westerner, one of the BMA again. Some of these men seemed to think they could use the cover of the military to carry out some quite shameful activities, mainly smuggling.

"Did he give his name?" he murmured, knowing the walls were thin enough for any conversation to be heard, and some could speak Chinese.

"Lucien Blake," she stumbled over the unfamiliar words, "he says he is looking for any relatives of Chen Fu."

Chen swallowed, surely not? He blinked and asked her to repeat the name.

"Send him in," he stood ready to receive the man claiming to be his son in law, who he was sure had perished at the hands of the invading Japanese forces.

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Outside the office, Lucien heard just enough and smiled. So the old man had survived, now to see if he was still as honourable as he remembered him.

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Fortified by cups of tea, Lucien and Chen talked for what seemed hours. He told how he had had to hide from the forces due to his part in the building of the harbour for the British, and, as Mei Lin had perished in the raid on the hospital and he had no way of knowing where Lucien was he had gone into the countryside, to family and posed as a poor farmer. It had been hard, seeing villagers go short as the Japanese took most of the produce they grew.

"But we survived," he smiled, "as I see you did."

"Yes, well," Lucien cleared his throat, "I try not to dwell on the camp, and somehow, with the support I receive at home, the nightmares have become less a part of my nights and days. Here," he took out a photograph of Li with Jean and Mary, "see how Li has grown, how beautiful she is. The girl with her is Mary, Jean's daughter, they are sisters through circumstance and are as close as can be."

"And Jean?" all Chen remembered was that she was his father's housekeeper, "and your esteemed father?"

"Father is a little shaky these days, a heart attack has left him frailer than he used to be, he is all but retired. Jean, hm..." he tipped his head, "how can I describe Jean. Firm, fair, strong and steady, a remarkable woman given what she has been through in her life. Abandoned by a feckless husband, thrown out by her mother, she has survived through pure grit and determination. She keeps us all in order. Li calls her 'mama', I suppose, sadly, that Jean is all she has known for a parent and she has been wonderful with her. Seen she has gone to a good school, taught her to be a strong person."

"Ah," Chen nodded wisely, "but ... Jean?"

"Jean is truly lovely," Lucien admitted, "we are courting, as much as we can. I'm sorry, I loved your daughter, but I must move on and Jean is the way for me. The girls do not know, as Mary has tried a spot of match-making and got into a bit of strife about it, but it turned out well in the end. My old friend the police Inspector and the pathologist at the hospital needed a little push in that direction."

"Mei Lin died, Lucien," Mr Chen breathed deeply, "I do not expect you to live the rest of your life a widower. We both know she was wilful, and if she had gone with Li she would still be alive. I consoled myself with the knowledge she was doing something good, and not partying with that other Major whose company she seemed to enjoy," he grimaced.

"Alderton?"

"Yes, him. He had designs on her, you know. I told her she would bring shame and dishonour to our family." Chen scowled.

"I did know," Lucien stared into his cup, "he made it through, in the same camp as me. He was injured in a fracas with the guards and I stitched him up. He wanted me to let him die, but I'm a doctor so I saved him. Why should he have the easy way out? I lost my wife, though I was lucky, I had Li to live for."

"The war did terrible things to all of us, Lucien. I have had to drag my business back from the brink. My cousin kept it going he ... the Japanese ... I am not proud of what he did, but we don't do that now. Silks and fine fabrics, it's what we have always done." Chen studied his fingers and Lucien wondered if there was something else he wanted to say. Chen looked up, "but, you are here and I am wondering why. You never did anything on the spur of the moment and I don't think it is just to look up your father in law, who you did not know had survived."

"I have been contacted and asked to look into smuggling and illegal immigration. Oh, please ... hear me out," Lucien held his hands up, "I know you to be an honourable man, and I do not suspect you in any way, but I wonder if you know of anyone using an export business for just this."

"You are still with the army?"

"No, no I'm just a caring country doctor back home in Ballarat, and the police surgeon; but once you've served they keep files on you." Lucien gave a small laugh.

"Your language skills set you apart."

"Perhaps."

Sensing he was not going to get anything more out of Chen, Lucien took his leave but invited him to dine with him at his hotel the following night.

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As he left the warehouse Lucien noticed two soldiers lurking in the shadows. Was his father in law under investigation by the Administration? He wondered what had happened to the cousin who had collaborated with the Japs, had he been dismissed, given a more lowly position perhaps? He had kept the business going and there were probably many others that had done similar, and they also would have been quite good at passing information, agents and double agents. He wanted to leave and head home by the end of the following week, he hoped he wasn't going to be dragged into some espionage business. On the surface his conversation with Chen had been amicable but he felt the man was holding something back.

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"Don't know, sir," the corporal stood at ease in front of his commanding sergeant, "white, well dressed, not someone we have seen before."

The corporal and his fellow soldier had gone immediately to the BMA office when they saw Lucien leave Chen's warehouse. Strangers were reported on, usually tailed to see what they were up to, and who they saw.

"Were you seen?" the sergeant asked.

"Don't think so," Corporal Shaw shook his head and turned to his colleague.

"Nope," the other man shook his head, "didn't even turn in our direction."

"When is the next package due out through Chen's?"

"Day after tomorrow," Corporal Innis shrugged.

"Follow him," Sergeant Riley steepled his fingers and leaned back in his chair, "find out where he is staying and if he sees anyone else."

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Back in Ballarat Jean found she was missing Lucien, as she would miss a lover. The evening sherry had lost it appeal so she would retire to bed with her book and read until sleep claimed her. Seeing she was missing the usual case discussion over dinner, Thomas suggested she ask Matthew and Alice over, at least it would give Matthew a break from cooking, if what he heard was true. Jean had smiled and agreed and the evening had been quite enjoyable,. Jean had suggested various people they could see and other places to look. Li checked the post each day to see if there was something from her father and when there was none Jean reassured her that he would be fine.

"No news is good news, Li dear," she hugged her, "and it takes a time to get letters from Singapore to here."

Lucien had addressed his letter to Jean so she was able to tell them as much, or as little, as she thought appropriate. Therefore, Li knew he was alright and Thomas did not worry that he was about to lose his son, again.

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The ever observant, when he needed to be, Dr Blake noticed street corner gatherings, surreptitious handshakes that may, or may not, be passing messages, small packages or just polite meetings. Some were between the local populace some between the Chinese and soldiers. He decided he was safest looking and acting like a tourist and visited 'places of interest', markets and shops, appeared to peruse the merchandise and bought small gifts for the family. A pretty jade and gold brooch in the shape of a flower for Jean, he thought it perfect for either her birthday, for which, this year, he had given her chocolates and a book she said she wanted, or Christmas - by which time he hoped he was on the way to making her his wife, if he hadn't done it by then. A whirlwind romance, tongues would wag, if what she told him about the gossips in town was true. They were both still young enough to have children and he would like that, he had always wanted more children.

He bought some Chinese brushes and watercolours for Mary and a book of paintings, those suitable for a young girl, some eastern art could be a little erotic and unsuitable. Li he found more difficult to buy for; too young for jewellery too old for toys; she didn't read Chinese so a book was out of the question, in the end he found a set for her dressing table: a tray and two little pots in silver with a raised design of a dragon circling the pots. He found a small necklace for Sylvia, who he regarded as one of the family and he didn't want her to feel left out. He reserved judgement on getting something for his father, he would know what to get him when he saw it.

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Mr Chen stood outside the hotel. It had been a long time since he had dined out anywhere and he was not surprised to see Lucien had booked himself into a smart hotel. He presented himself at the reception desk and asked for Dr Blake.

"Of course, sir," the concierge nodded, "he is expecting you, in the lounge."

He was shown to where Lucien sat with a whisky and the newspaper.

"Your guest has arrived, doctor."

Lucien quickly folded the paper and stood up, bowing politely. He ordered a whisky for Mr Chen and another for himself and they settled to talk of the old days. They ate a well prepared meal, more western than Chinese, Mei Lin had always said her father was more English than the English, and shared a bottle of wine, French, imported, no questions asked.

As they took their after dinner coffee, again in the lounge, Mr Chen decided he could trust Lucien and asked him a guarded question. Could he go with him, to the warehouse, the following day, and give his workers a medical check up.

"I do not trust some of the doctors here," he whispered, "I know you are a good doctor, I can pay you."

"Money is not necessary," Lucien nodded, "I will happily check your men over, and the ladies if you so wish and they would like it."

"No, Lucien, I insist on paying you," Chen smiled, "a proper contract, honour."

Lucien acquiesced, feeling this was more than it seemed.

They parted having made arrangements for Lucien to go over to the warehouse the following day. He was grateful he had taken his medical bag with him, it gave him a wonderful excuse to go to Chen's business.

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Lucien knew he was being followed, they weren't particularly subtle about it, but what could be more reasonable than a businessman asking for his workers to be checked for fitness to work?

In his office Chen wondered if he was doing the right thing. He wanted to expose the corruption in the BMA. or certain parts of it, and this was the only way he thought he could do it, and perhaps Lucien would know who he should talk to or even take the evidence himself.

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"I was followed, esteemed father in law," Lucien placed his medical bag on the table, "should I be worried?"

"Lucien," Chen ran his hands through his now greying hair, "while I do want you to examine the workers I also need your help."

"The soldiers around the city," Blake frowned, "they seem to be doing business or making deals with locals, at least that's what it looks like to me. I can assume this is not legal, yes?"

Chen nodded, "not many of them speak Chinese, perhaps ..."

Lucien nodded and proceeded to check each worker, conversing with them in their own language and writing down his findings in characters. He would ask questions about their health, their families, their position in the company and from it gleaned quite a lot of information that surprised him greatly. Namely, some of the BMA soldiers had discovered export businesses like Chen's were ideal ways to get drugs out of the country, jewellery and in some cases weapons. The used blackmail techniques, threatened families or threatened the holders of the businesses.

Chen had been targeted by Innis and Shaw, led by Sergeant Riley, and their merchandise of choice was drugs. The small packets were easy to slip into a bolt of silk in a layer and sent to a specific company, in their case, in America. So far he had resisted, but some of his workers had been pushed into agreeing to do their bidding. Chen had thought of sacking them, when he found out. A bolt of silk was dropped and became unrolled, a sheet of little packages slipped to the floor creating a huge disturbance. The man who had been loading the silk had grovelled and whined and told how his wife and teenage daughter would be harmed if he did not do Riley's bidding. They had hidden the bolt in question and were thinking how they could stop the smuggling when Lucien had arrived. Now, Chen hoped, it could be stopped, or at least these three could be.

"Is there anything to prove that this Sergeant Riley is sending this particular batch through?" Lucien asked, still speaking in the local language.

"Only by catching him in the act," Chen sighed, "and how I am supposed to do that, I don't know."

"They come at night," the shaking worker snivelled. "Tonight, another delivery."

"Right," Lucien hissed, "this is what we'll do."

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Riley looked around. It was dark in the warehouse but up ahead he could see Lau with the silk ready to be loaded with opium. He patted the front of his uniform jacket and motioned Innis and Shaw forward.

Lucien and Chen, together with a few workers who were willing to help subdue the three soldiers and bring them to justice, waited hidden by some crates nearby. The trick was to catch them with the drugs on them and putting some in the roll of silk. They knew these men were the tip of the iceberg but it was a start and Lucien knew one of the higher level men in the Governor-General's office he could trust.

It was all over very quickly, and Jean would have been happy to hear that Lucien did not get hurt in the process; for a change. He and two female workers had lengths of rope they could use to bind the hands of each soldier when they were subdued by an onslaught of legs and hands and well aimed kicks to the back of the knees.

They bundled them into one of the trucks that took the merchandise to the docks and Chen drove them to the Governor-General's headquarters.

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Two o'clock in the morning is never a good time to waken one's superiors but Lucien and Chen had nowhere to keep three soldiers until 'office hours' so they trundled up to the compound and announced themselves. Lucien gave his title as Major L R Blake, retired, and demanded to see the man in charge.

The guard on duty looked at him. Well dressed, his documents proved he was who he said he was so they were escorted into the building. The three soldiers they had with them were dragged along by Chen's workers and one of the women followed respectfully behind with the bolt of silk that had been tampered with.

The Governor-General's batman was summoned and told what Lucien and Chen had found out. They showed the evidence and watched while he took notes.

"Right, well I'd better go and wake him, though he won't be pleased," he sighed, "wait here."

Lucien and Chen sat down and waited. They knew that they could have entered a snake pit of corruption but Lucien had a feeling that this was the right thing to do. They had been let in to the compound without an argument, when, if it had been a case of this being the top of the organisation of corruption they would, in all likelihood have had the soldiers taken from them and sent on their way, no proper questions asked.

The Governor-General appeared, wrapped in a thick tartan dressing gown, his hair sticking up from where he had been lying on it.

"Blake," he extended his hand, "don't want to stereotype but you have to be him, and Chen?" he looked at Lucien's father in law.

Chen bowed respectfully.

"Sit," the G-C waved his hands at the chairs they had just risen from, "now what's all this about?"

"Well, sir," Lucien began and proceeded to tell how he had become involved, without mentioning Derek, and what he had found out. Chen added his part to the whole story, pausing only when they were interrupted by the batman returning and whispering in his boss's ear. The G-C nodded and motioned for Chen to continue.

".. and that's how we come to be here," Lucien finished off, "this corruption has to stop. Mr Chen is not going to be railroaded into breaking the law just so men such as these can line their own pockets with ill gotten gains. I believe they are not the only ones, I have heard that some are using the export trade to ship illegal migrants out of the country. Human trafficking is an appalling thing."

The woman holding the bolt of silk stepped silently forward and placed the fabric on the low table in front of the men, she retreated, walking backwards and bowing. The G-C lifted a corner of the silk and a strip of small packages dropped out. As he bent to pick it up Lucien stopped him and took a clean, pressed handkerchief out of his pocket.

"Fingerprints, sir," he smiled, "you pick up a thing or two working with the police."

"Yes, of course," the G-C nodded.

They were thanked for bringing the situation to the Headquarters' attention, though Lucien was fairly sure they knew it was happening, and shown out of the compound.

"What happens now?" Chen mused, "I can't see that this is the end of it."

"It's in his hands now, and, as I said, if any harm comes to you or your workers I will go even higher up the chain," Lucien stepped out of the truck outside his hotel. "I would like to get back to Ballarat as soon as possible," he continued, "I have commitments there, not least to Li and father. Perhaps, one day, you would like to come and meet your granddaughter?"

"I would like that very much," Chen smiled, "do you think I would be able to?"

"I see no reason why you should not be able to make a visit to Australia," Lucien nodded, "you do not have a criminal record and it would be a holiday, not a business trip."

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Even as he took his leave Lucien knew he had not uncovered more than the tip of the iceberg but if it kept Chen and his workers safe then he considered his job done. Now he had to report back to Derek, or rather set his mind at rest, that it wasn't Chen who was instigating this smuggling racket. He was fairly sure he would have trouble convincing him that it was the BMA who were at the root of it, or some on the ground personnel, anyway. Derek had always been unswervingly loyal to the army.

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His last evening in the hotel was spent eating a meal and thinking of what was waiting for him back in Ballarat. Images of Jean floated past his eyes as he sipped a whisky in the lounge. What would she say when she picked him up from the station? She would be proper, cool towards him, perhaps, outwardly. They weren't advertising their feelings for each other to the wider populace. He would be courteous, a little aloof perhaps, until they got home, then he planned to take her in his arms and kiss her - thoroughly, regardless of whether the girls and his father were watching. Actually, he mused as he drifted off to sleep, perhaps they could take a detour round Lake Wendouree ...

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Jean stood on the station platform waiting for the train to arrive. Lucien had telegrammed her to let her know what time he would be arriving, and asked her if she would kindly collect him from the station. When she had opened the small envelope her heart had done a little back flip, well, several in fact. She chided herself for her adolescent feelings and set to planning the meal she would serve that night and sitting with him in the studio with their evening drinks.

She had dressed conservatively, as befitted her station in life but nevertheless had paid attention to her make-up and hair. She may be a housekeeper but she was still a young woman after all.

She hid her excitement as best she could as the train drew into the station. She must be proper in her greeting, now more than ever before, there were so many people about.

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The train screeched to a stop in a cloud of smoke and steam. Carriage doors started opening and people spilled out, waved to those who were waiting, husbands and wives kissed, grandparents offered their cheeks to grandchildren and Jean waited. She spotted Lucien alighting from a carriage at the rear of the train and look around. She waved, but not too eagerly, just to attract his attention. He couldn't wave back as he had the three half bolts of silk under his arm, though he did smile broadly and strode over to her through the crowds.

"Mrs Beazley," he nodded formally, "thank you for meeting me."

She nodded and hid a smile, just, "of course, Dr Blake, I hope your trip went well."

"As well as could be expected," he fell into step beside her as they headed to the car, "I hope you didn't have to wait too long, at the station."

"No, not really," she looked at him, noting the twinkle in his eye, "I did set off early, there's quite a lot of traffic and your father's car needs a service, it's been difficult to start these past few days."

"Well, we can see to that in the next few days."

"Of course," she took out the keys as they arrived at the car, "let's see if she will start ... this time."

He laughed and stowed his suitcase and package on the back seat while Jean got into the driver's seat and turned the ignition on. It started, with a cough, but at least she didn't have to offer up prayers this time.

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Lucien was surprised how busy Ballarat was until Jean reminded him it was market day. He suggested they go via Lake Wendouree.

"I know it's the long way round, Jean," he watched her waiting for a gap so she could pull out onto the main road, "but at least we'll keep moving."

"You're probably right," she sighed, "and it's a pleasant route."

"It is, and while we drive you can tell me what's been going on here." He smiled a small smile and thought about his idea of driving round the lake instead of going directly home. How fortuitous it was that it was market day.

"Not much," she admitted, "Matthew and Alice seem as close as ever, if not closer," she grinned, "they have been over for dinner a couple of times, to talk about a couple of cases, all solved now. Matthew took your father to the club, for a change of scenery and he seems to be doing fine. Alice checked him over last Friday and said his recovery is going splendidly."

"The girls?"

"Fine, though Li looked for a letter or postcard every day. I told her you would beat them back and that no news is good news."

"Pull over here, Jean," he pointed at a secluded spot.

"Sorry?" she turned and looked at him, eyes wide with surprise.

"Pull over here," he smiled, "let's talk. We won't get chance at home, and ..." he inhaled, "I've missed you," he blushed, "quite a lot."

"Lucien," she hissed, "what will people think?"

"They're all at the market, look" he waved his hand to show it was quite deserted.

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She repaired her lipstick and wondered at his idea of 'talking', they hadn't done much actual talking. She looked at him as he straightened his tie, which had somehow become loosened and his top two buttons were undone ... here in the car, in daylight!

"Here," she took the handkerchief and wiped his mouth and beard, "Mary and Li will get ideas."

"I've got a few," he grinned.

"Behave, doctor," she giggled, "I thought you wanted to talk."

"You didn't argue," he teased, checking in the mirror to see that he had removed all the lipstick. "Seriously, though, Jean," he cleared his throat, "I did miss you ..."

"I missed you, too," she blushed, "evenings in particular weren't the same."

"I wondered if we could take our courtship to the next level, perhaps dinner out ..."

"Not in Ballarat," she muttered, "sorry, Lucien, but the way the gossipmongers go on they'll have me leading you on, getting above my station ..." she looked down.

"You'd think they'd have something better to talk about than the life of a housekeeper, especially one who has three children to look after, one elderly and infirm man and a wayward doctor, and runs the home _and_ the practice - doesn't give you much time to lead me on."

"When you put it like that," she laughed, "it doesn't give me much time to sleep, either."

"So how you would have time for any sort of love life ..?"

"... and still they would find some snippet that has me in your bed." She blushed, furiously.

"We'll find a way, sweetheart," he stroked her cheek, "perhaps picnics out of town ... where do you take your annual leave?"

"Er, I don't really bother, too much," she murmured, "I've always had Mary and Li to think about so if I did take a break it was usually a weekend in Melbourne, with the girls, or a day to do some special shopping. I've no family to go and visit, that will have me, anyway."

"I think you should start and take a week off, in the summer ..."

"...and what do I do with the girls?" she raised her eyebrows.

"I think they are of an age where they can do a lot of things themselves, can't they?"

She knew that Mary and Li were perfectly capable of washing and ironing, and cooking quite a lot of meals but she didn't feel she could just swan off to Melbourne or somewhere and leave them. What if Thomas needed help, or was taken ill again? Because wherever she went she had a good idea Lucien would suddenly find himself in the same town and someone would put two and two together, and make five.

"Perhaps a picnic, out of town," she hummed.

"Lovely," he patted her knee, "now, this delay should have given Mary something to think about, perhaps we'd better get back."

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Mary had indeed be wondering why it seemed to be taking so long for her mother to bring Uncle Lucien back from the station. Was the train late? Had they had an accident? She was just wondering if she should phone Uncle Matthew and ask him to look out for them when there was the sound of tyres crunching on the gravel. She rushed to open the front door, just in time to see Lucien kiss Jean's hand and smile at her. Li ran after her, abandoning her homework at the kitchen table and skidded to a halt behind her sister.

"What...?" she gaped, "oh," she giggled, "shall we say we saw them?"

"No, don't" Mary turned and put her hand on Li's arm, "I don't want to embarrass either of them."

"Where do you think they've been?" Li persisted, "they took a long time getting from the station, didn't they?"

"Traffic?" Mary clutched at the first thing that came into her head, "or the car."

"Suppose so," Li shrugged, "it wouldn't start yesterday morning, would it?"

"No, must've been that," Mary agreed and they just stood waiting for Jean and Lucien to alight from the car, before greeting Lucien appropriately, that is with hugs and kisses.

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"I think we've been rumbled," Lucien whispered seeing the two girls standing on the doorstep.

"Let's ignore it, for now," Jean smiled back, hidden by Lucien's broad shoulders, the girls couldn't see her go a little pink.

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After dinner, just the family, Lucien unveiled his gifts for the immediate family. Mary was delighted with the painting set, and Li stroked her fingers over the raised design of the dressing table set, but one of the most touching things, for him, was the reaction of Sylvia to the little necklace her bought her. She was sitting out of the way in the studio, watching the scene play out, not expecting anything and then he had, quite tenderly, presented her with the gift box. She was speechless and near to tears that he would deem her part of the family enough to think of her while he was so far away. When she protested that she was just a friend he had this to offer:

"We are all family in this house, Sylvia," he smiled, "whoever rests their head here is one of us, Jean, Mrs Beazley, showed me that when I returned. You do not have to bear the name 'Blake'. but you are one of us."

She fell into his open arms and above her head he saw Jean smile, knowing he had truly come home.

Once everyone else had gone to bed and his father had stopped effusing over the seal he had presented him with, the Chinese symbol for family in wax, he and Jean settled to their, resumed, ritual of whisky and sherry in the studio. She had been embarrassed at the silk he had chosen for her, and muttered that it could be difficult to sew, but she would do her best to make special dresses for the girls.

"And you, Jean?"

"I'll think of something," she smiled, "in the fullness of time."

"Well, until you do, this is for you. I didn't want to give it to you while the girls were down here, you know Mary would read something into it," he passed over the box containing the brooch. He had thought about it on the journey home and decided to give it her now, rather than wait for her next birthday, or Christmas.

The box was about two inches square, in a way she was relieved, it wasn't a ring box, that would have been a step too far, just yet.

"Lucien, you shouldn't have, the silk was extravagant enough," she slowly lifted the lid, and gasped. "It's lovely."

"I'm glad you like it," he seemed to have gone a little pink.

"I do, thank you," she leant in to him and kissed him lightly on the lips.

"Jean," he stroked her cheek, "um, I er ... I thought about you, and me, while I was in Singapore, and, well, I know this is a bit of a whirlwind, but," he ran his hand over his head, nervously, "I really was wondering if you would consent to be my wife, at sometime in the future ... the near future, maybe ..."

"Lucien," she whispered, "today it was a picnic, now you want to marry me? We only met months ago ... I ran headlong into a relationship once before, it didn't go so well."

"I know, and I quite understand I'm rushing you, but I promise I will not push you to do anything you may regret," he raised his hands, "I do love you Jean, I have never been so sure of anything in my life, as I am of my love for you."

There was silence as she processed his declaration. She was sure of her feelings for him, even though it had only been months since her had returned, some things, she knew, did not have to take long. Marrying Dr Blake would be a step up, a big step up, in her social level and there would be talk; gold digger for instance.

"I will wait, for as long as you want me to wait, Jean," he broke into her musings.

She looked into his eyes. There was something of the little boy in them, the hope that he would get the best chocolate in the box if he was patient enough.

"I will marry you, Lucien," she half smiled, "but can it be a secret engagement, please. Living under the same roof as my fiancé there will be more talk than I can take and moving out would be impossible."

"I will not have you hounded out of your home, if necessary I will move out ..."

"That's even more ridiculous," she scowled, "no, neither of us will move out, we will keep quiet until we need to say something, perhaps a month before we decide the time is right. Either one of us moving out separates the girls and there is your father to think of, and Sylvia. Family Welfare will not countenance her living with a single man or a divorced woman, it was only that we can care for her, together, that had her placed with us. Your father needs looking after - what if you have a call in the night, waking in up in the morning with no one in the house could be worrying for him and that would not help his recovery. If Alice and Matthew can share a house I'm sure we can." She drew herself up and he smiled, this was a sign she had made her mind up and the rest of the town could go hang! He loved this strong side of Jean, Mei Lin would have been more concerned about how it would look, to outsiders, but even then she had been seen out with his friend more than himself. Still Jean had run the gauntlet of gossip when she divorced Christopher he would do his best to protect her from the gossip of her living with an eligible bachelor.

"A secret it is then," he pulled her close, "but when everyone is in bed?" he raised his eyebrows and she giggled.

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Note: BMA - British Military Administration


	18. Chapter 18

I must be honest I am not sure about this chapter, but I wanted Derek to have a secret for Lucien to find out. It just grew as so many of my stories do.

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Lucien's first action the following morning, after breakfast and a quick kiss with Jean before the rest of his family came into the kitchen, was to prepare himself for a meeting with Derek. He had asked the hospital to send the daily notes to the house ready for him to read as soon as he returned and he sat in the study to read them.

Derek seemed to have phases where he was not aware of his surroundings, more than before Lucien left. He seemed to be having time relapses where he was back in the POW camp and was surly, and if a nurse came in he flirted and flattered as he had done when he was in Singapore, with Mei Lin. Then there were times he just stared into the far distance not acknowledging anyone.

Lucien leant back in his chair and ran his hand over his head. The doctors' opinions were that he was probably having a series of mini strokes and they had noticed his hand-eye coordination was not as good as it should be and his hands were losing grip strength.

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"To be perfectly frank, Dr Blake," the hospital physician mused, "I think he needs to be transferred to somewhere where he can be nursed for the remainder of his life."

"Well, he certainly can't go back to active duty, even a desk bound post," Lucien agreed, "so retirement on medical grounds. I shall go and tell him what I found out, in Singapore, and see how he takes that. I found high level corruption, but my father in law was not a willing participant."

"He kept going on about you bringing Mei Lin ..?"

Lucien nodded.

"... Mei Lin back to see him."

"Mei Lin was my wife, she was killed when the hospital was overrun," Lucien sighed, "he really is not well. Before I left he blamed me for her death."

"That's what I thought, so ..."

"Memory gone, or going." Lucien shook his head, sadly, and went into Derek's room, prepared for a battle of words.

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Derek greeted him like a long lost brother, asked what he was doing there and how his family was.

"Just a simple country doctor, these days," Lucien smiled, "family's doing fine."

"Good, good," Derek smiled, "now, when are they going to let me out of here, do you know?"

"Derek," Lucien hated passing on bad news to a patient, but Derek had to know, and as he seemed lucid, if not quite up to date, now was a good time to explain to him what was wrong with him, "Derek, how are you feeling?"

"Er, alright, I think," the patient tipped his head, "bit fuzzy headed, and I can't remember why I am here. Keep dropping things."

"Well, it would appear you are having little strokes, bleeds on the brain," Lucien felt he could sit on the bed and talk to him as an old friend, as well as a patient, "that is why you can't grip things as well as you should be able to, and it would seem your memory is affected."

"Well, you're good at putting folk back together ..." he looked hopeful.

"Physical injuries, yes," the doctor agreed, "but I can't operate and stop what is happening to you. You need a quiet life, Derek, retirement, a hobby."

"Bloody hell!" Derek pushed himself up against the pillows, "I can't retire! Too much to do, insurgents, spies are all around us!"

"Calm down," Lucien patted his arm, "I'm sorry, Derek, but the army won't take you back, not like this. Time to take it easy, leave it to the young men."

"You're in with them, aren't you! An agent, contacts in Singapore, I'll bet that's where you've been!"

Lucien stood up and shook his head, Derek's thinking was even more muddled, he seemed to have forgotten he had wanted Lucien to go to investigate the Chen family business.

The doctor that Lucien had conferred with came in, concerned when Derek had shouted. Lucien drew him aside.

"His mind is going, he can be perfectly reasonable then when he is challenged, or told something he doesn't want to hear, becomes agitated and irrational. I am concerned that when he has an outburst like this, his blood pressure raises and puts pressure on the weakened blood vessels in his brain."

"You told him he has to retire?"

"Yes, that's when he started on about insurgents, even accused me of being an agent," Lucien put his hands in his pockets, "time to find a place for him. I'll contact the army."

"Did he mention your wife?" the doctor whispered.

"No, so don't remind him."

"Right."

"It's best if nothing raises his blood pressure, because of the weak blood vessels in his brain."

"Of course, perhaps a mild sedative?"

"If he becomes agitated, yes, I'll write one up."

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Whatever Lucien's feelings about Derek and Mei Lin, he was saddened that the Major had come to this - consigned to a retirement home where he was effectively waiting for death. While Derek was around the same age as Lucien this was an old man's illness the only explanation could be head injuries during the war. He stood at the nurse's station staring into space oblivious to the people around him.

"Dr Blake?" a nurse tapped him on the shoulder, "can I help you?"

"Hm, what?" he blinked, "oh yes, sorry, miles away." He took a prescription pad and wrote up the medication for Alderton, "if the Major gets agitated ..."

"Very well," she took the pad and tore the sheet off it, "I'll put it with his chart."

"Thank you, now I'd better go and talk to the army and see where we can place him."

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The need for a safe and comfortable place for Derek to see out his last days was not easy to find , and in the end not necessary. Lucien visited him daily, as his doctor, and while most days he was quiet, sullen and had returned to blaming Lucien for Mei Lin's death there were a couple of times when he had to be sedated. Each time he became agitated Blake ordered another x-ray, and each time another lesion appeared.

Alice was on her way to pass on a pathology report to another doctor when she heard shouting. Derek's voice she recognised but the other voice was a woman's and she sounded frightened. She joined another nurse and doctor in the race to get to the room and see what had upset him.

In the room Derek had hold of the nurse's wrist and was screaming at her, demanding to know where she had been, that everyone thought she was dead. Alice pulled up short, it was obvious what was going through his mind; the nurse was Chinese, one of the few in the hospital, and he, in his cloudy mind, thought she was Mei Lin. The doctor didn't know the history of the patient, he, like Alice, was just passing, the other nurse knew he was a veteran of the war but not the full story so Alice felt the need to step in.

"Major Alderton, let Mrs Blake go!" she went to the nurse and put her arms round her shoulders, "she has duties to attend to."

The nurse looked confused, Derek gasped and released his hold allowing the nurse to step back and away.

"I suggest you find the Major's doctor and perhaps arrange his medication," Alice moved the nurse away, "I shall speak to Dr Blake." She turned her attention to the shaken nurse, "come with me, Nurse, let's see if we can find a cup of tea."

"Dr?"

"Dr Harvey," Alice smiled, "come along."

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Outside, Alice asked the nurse at the desk to phone Dr Blake and ask him to attend Major Alderton, as he had had an 'episode', and steered Nurse Chong into Sister's office.

"Take a seat," she patted her shoulder, "I'll organise a cuppa."

Tea organised Alice let the minutes pass while Nurse Chong composed herself.

"Why did he call me Mei Lin?" she sipped the tea slowly, "my name is Jiao."

"Dr Blake's wife was Chinese," Alice could at least tell her a little of the history, "Major Alderton knew them, both, well. Mrs Blake died in Singapore, working in the hospital when it was overrun by the invading Japanese forces. He has some problems with his memory, I'm afraid, because you are similar looking to Mrs Blake ..."

"I understand, I think," she smiled, "it is sad, that these men, who only fought to protect their country and its people should come to this and other anxieties. Perhaps it would be better if I do not attend to the major, I do not want to upset him. This country gave my parents safe haven when they left their home country."

"You are very understanding ..." Alice patted her hand then turned her head as there seemed to be somewhat of a commotion in the corridor, "excuse me."

There were medical staff all around Derek's bed, shouts for adrenalin and oxygen and a doctor was using CPR. It was loud and busy, Alice knew what was happening and stood back, surplus to requirements. It was all over by the time Lucien appeared. Derek had had one final massive stroke and died as he arrived.

"Lucien," Alice stopped him, "it's all over, he's gone."

"What happened?" he ran his hand over his head.

"He thought Nurse Chong was Mei Lin," she drew him aside as the nursing staff tidied up and prepared to lay Alderton out, "he grabbed her and shouted at her, wanting to know where she had been. Obviously Nurse Chong fought back, she would, she didn't know the story, your wife ..."

"I understand," he sighed, "is she alright?"

"Shaken, but I told her why the major had reacted the way he did." She paused and watched his face for a reaction, "I'm sorry Lucien, I know he was your friend, once but," she inhaled, "perhaps it is better this way, that he doesn't sit in a retirement home. He was not an old man, really."

"You may be right, there, I would hate to have lived a half life, as he would have done."

"Did he have any family, they should know?"

"His parents are both gone," Lucien sighed, "his mother died after an illness, though I don't know what, Derek wouldn't talk about her. His father died just before the war started, they came from Newcastle, New South Wales."

"No siblings?"

"Not that I know of, or that he spoke of," he sighed, "I suppose the army will arrange his funeral, I'll speak to them."

"Of course."

Lucien took one last look at the man that had been his friend, in spite of everything, and wandered slowly home.

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Lucien was very quiet for the rest of the day. He had a few patients to see in the afternoon, but other than that he had only his thoughts for company. The girls were at school and Jean had taken his father for a stroll near the lake before surgery so it wasn't until dinner time that he was able to pass on the news.

"I am sorry, Lucien," Jean touched his arm, "he was your friend. It's a sad way to go."

"Better that than consigned to a nursing home," he recalled Alice's words, "I'm waiting for the army to tell me if he had any family I didn't know about."

"I suppose they will deal with everything," she passed him his plate, "the funeral, his will."

"Should do," he agreed.

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Derek had been gone two days when the army phoned Lucien for some help. It seemed he had a young daughter, living in Newcastle. She was at boarding school and they only knew because the school had contacted, or tried to contact, Derek about the fees for that year, which had not been paid.

Looking into his bank account they saw the payments going out for the previous academic year but this year there had not been enough to cover the cost. His army pay had gone into a different account and they wondered if they should pay the fees from there.

"Did he make a will?"

"We can't find one," the clerk sighed, "so, now we know he had a daughter we assume she should get everything."

"Has she been told?" Lucien ran his hand over his head, wondering if some young lieutenant had been sent to impart the news and frightened the poor girl to death.

"No, not yet," the clerk shook her head, "we are hoping to get the headmistress to tell her, better it comes from someone she knows."

"Quite, but what I don't understand is why he never said anything about her, to me, or Mei Lin. Is there something wrong with her that he was ashamed about?" Lucien wondered if she was mentally deficient or physically deformed. Derek was not one to suffer imperfections in anyone. He had once seen a child with leg callipers and huffed that such babies should be consigned to homes or done away with. Lucien had been horrified, all life was sacred, had a purpose, to him.

"Not as far as we know, the school is just a boarding school, not a 'special' school."

"Are you alright with me coming over to go through his things, I might find something that helps us?"

"Well, we are a bit shorthanded, in the office," the clerk sounded relieved, "so it would be a great help, if you would."

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Lucien sat surrounded by Derek's personal items. His clothes were gone through to see if there was anything in the pockets, just odd bits of change, then set aside to be sent to an op shop, the things he had with him when he had shot Wellaway he pushed to one side. They had been thoroughly searched by Bill Hobart and nothing had been found that pertained to his family life. There was a diary for 1939 that had the usual doctor's and dentist's appointments, dinner engagements - most of them at the Blake's house - and a folded up piece of paper tucked inside the back cover. He unfolded it and found it was a birth certificate for Helen, born to Agnes Ford; housemaid was given as her occupation; and Major Derek Alderton, seventeenth of August 1939. The child must have been conceived over the Christmas period of 1938. So, Derek had bedded one of the maids and Helen was the result. The poor child would be coming up on her sixth birthday! Six! That was no age to send a child to boarding school.

In an old shoe box Lucien found some correspondence, a couple of old birthday cards from his father. There was no mention of his mother in the card, so it must have been sent after she died. The faded date on the envelope could just be made out - 1933.

"Poor kid," Lucien muttered to himself, "all alone." He felt a wave of responsibility wash over him. Now he had a name, an address for the school and if Derek hadn't made a will perhaps he could help the girl deal with that legal minefield.

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"I wonder if Derek mentioned you to her," Jean sipped her sherry, "even if he didn't mention her to you." She drew her brows together, it didn't make sense to her why he hadn't told anyone about his daughter, where was her mother?

"It's as if he didn't want anyone to know she existed," he stared into his glass, "as far as I know he never married, just lusted after my wife. This child may well be the result of a fling when he was home for R&R."

"Poor thing," Jean sighed, "so young." She couldn't imagine having sent Mary off to a boarding school at the age of six. "I wonder who looked after her until she was old enough to go to school," she mused.

"Mm," Lucien agreed, "well, I told the army to pass my name on to the school, if it will help." He watched her for a reaction.

"We have the room, Lucien," she smiled, knowing what he was thinking.

"We'll have more children than Mount Clear," he smiled.

"Do you think she will want to stay at the school, in Newcastle?" it occurred to Jean that the least change might be the best for her, but her age played on her mind.

"That I shall leave up to her, though she is a bit young to be making such decisions. The fees need to be paid out of Derek's account, the army are doing that for this year."

"Do you know when Derek last came to Australia?"

"He came over whenever he could, to see his father, until he passed. I thought he seemed quite close to him." Lucien took a swallow of his whisky, "I suppose at the time I was a little jealous, perhaps I should have made more of an effort."

"Don't start that," she huffed, "you and your father have mended the bridges, look forward, Lucien, dear, not backwards."

"Of course, you are quite right, dear Jean," he smiled and leant forward to kiss her cheek.

"Is that all you can manage?" she raised an eyebrow.

"Well, if you put it like that," he took her glass out of her hand, "how about this," and he took her into his arms and kissed her most thoroughly, leaving her pink and breathless. And speechless!

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Helen Alderton sat and listened while the headmistress told her, quite gently, that her father had died. The words floated by her as if in a dream as Miss Hobson told her he had been ill, from injuries received while in captivity.

"Your fees have been paid, for this year, dear," she carried on, "so you can stay until then. After that who knows."

Helen mused on this. Her father barely spoke to her, her mother had committed suicide when Derek had abandoned her at the end of the war, and it was he who had sent her to this school. They weren't particularly kind, it wasn't a top school, but good enough. The fees had been paid by her father but he had never acknowledged her, not even a birthday or Christmas card.

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Ten days or so later, a letter arrived for Helen. She was most surprised, she didn't get mail, usually. She assumed it was something to do with her father, and took it to the dormitory to read. She turned it over in her hand and examined the postmark - Ballarat. She'd never heard of the place, though she could see it was in the State of Victoria.

She opened it and stared at the unfamiliar, but careful, hand that flowed across the page.

"Dear Helen,"

Lucien had written. It had taken him a few days before he decided it was right that he contact the young girl, at least to let her know there was someone who knew her father and was willing to speak to her.

"Dear Helen,

My name is Dr Lucien Blake and I knew your father. I offer my condolences on his passing.

Your father and I were in the army together but he never told me about you. If you need any help or advice please do not be afraid to ask.

Again, my condolences,

Lucien Blake."

It wasn't the best of letters and his handwriting was difficult for the six year old to decipher, he thought, but he felt he had to reach out to her.

At first Helen was upset, that her father had never said anything to his friend but this Dr Blake sounded kind. She would talk to her teacher about this. She had no idea what would happen now, if she would have to stay at the school or go to an orphanage.

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"So," the head teacher folded her arms and stared at the collected members of staff, "what do we do about the Alderton girl?"

"We can't throw her out," one shrugged, "her fees had been paid, haven't they?"

"Just."

"She's a sweet little thing, though rather reserved for a six year old," another smiled, "she should be found a family."

"And I suppose I just put out an advert in the paper, do I?" the head sniffed.

"No, of course not," the other widened her eyes, "but at this rate she will be raised by the school."

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While the school were discussing Helen's future as if she were a piece of furniture one had grown tired of, Lucien was deep in thought. He lay in bed thinking on Jean's remark that they had 'the room'. They did, but another child, at this rate they would have a full family before they were married and he rather liked the idea of having at least one more child, with Jean. He loved Mary, and was very fond of Sylvia but at this rate his house would turn into the local orphanage. He supposed it wouldn't hurt to actually meet the child, he couldn't visit her father's sins on her. Perhaps he should take Jean with him, a weekend in Brisbane.

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"Lucien!" she shrieked when he put the idea to her, "what will people think?"

"I shall give them a piece of my mind, if they so much as whisper anything," Thomas huffed, "me and the girls will manage just fine, now go and meet the poor child."

"We can't" she insisted, "I can't leave you all, on your own."

"Mum we'll be fine," Mary smiled, "we can all cook, Uncle Matthew could always come round and check on us."

It took some work but Jean was finally persuaded to go with Lucien to Brisbane, if, and only if, she and he boarded the train separately.

"If you insist," Lucien sighed, "I'll book our rooms," he stressed the plural, "somewhere nice."

Jean eyed him suspiciously but had to give in on this.

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The head teacher told Helen her father's old army friend had decided to come and visit her, see if she needed anything. She was to be polite but not to ask for anything she wanted.

"You have clothes and are fed, Helen," she looked down on the child, "you do not really need anything else."

"Except a mummy and daddy," Helen muttered. She remembered her mother, not a very happy mummy, but at least she had kept her warm and well fed and the money her father had sent kept them in a little flat that was neat and tidy. She never met her father, her mother just said he was in the army and lived in another country, though she couldn't remember which one.

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Lucien could sense Jean's nervousness as she sat opposite him in the railway carriage. He had quietly assured her, the previous night, that he did not have an ulterior motive for taking her away to Brisbane, just that he though a female presence might help the child, that and he wasn't sure how to speak to a six year old.

As the miles flew by he told her a little about his experiences of boarding school. It hadn't been too bad, but he had missed his mother. He did go home for the holidays and was able to keep in touch with his friends, such as Matthew, but he wondered who in their right mind would send a six year old to boarding school and then, to all intents and purposes, forget she existed.

"What I don't understand is why he didn't say anything to you. You were his friend." Jean pursed her lips, "it's as if he was ashamed."

"Derek didn't think babies that were born with disabilities should be allowed to live," Lucien frowned, "I wonder if she has a birth defect of some sort."

"Really?" she leant forward, "do you really think that? Would he really have been so callous?"

"Oh, yes," he grunted, "he saw a child with callipers once and said it shouldn't have been allowed to live."

"Oh, Lucien," tears filled her eyes, "that's awful."

"Yes, it is, isn't it?"

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The hotel was grander than Jean would have thought of booking for herself, but not so grand that she was overwhelmed. Anyway, if she was going to marry Lucien, sometime in the future, then she would have to get used to such luxuries. He had been as good as his word and booked separate, but double, rooms on the same floor. Each room had its own small bathroom and a little sitting area.

Jean unpacked and washed the travel grime off her face. She repaired her makeup and waited for him to call for her, to take a stroll in a nearby park. They had about an hour before dinner, enough time to stretch their legs and see if they could find the location of the school.

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Lucien managed not to whistle when Jean entered the dining room for dinner. He wasn't sure what a housekeeper would have tucked away in her wardrobe suitable to wear for dinner in a smart hotel, but there she was, in a beautiful silk dress. The silk he had bought her suited her perfectly; she must have been sewing in secret for days. The dress fastened with four buttons at the front, double breasted, had a shawl collar and sleeves that ended just below her elbows. the skirt was full, but not too full, and supported by a net underskirt. Her waist was nipped in by a narrow belt. It rustled as she moved, he was utterly entranced.

He almost forgot to stand as she approached the table and in his haste he nearly sent his chair flying. Jean hid a giggle behind her hand.

"Jean," he pulled her chair out for her, "you look stunning."

"Thank you, Lucien," she allowed him to seat her and smiled. She had given herself a good talking to before she went down the stairs, about how she had nothing to be ashamed of, she was correctly dressed for dinner in a hotel of this standard and Lucien would not allow her to be embarrassed. Furthermore, nobody knew her there.

Jean chose a light meal from the menu; a light salmon starter, followed by a chicken main dish and a strawberry and meringue dessert. Lucien had ordered a light floral white wine that went perfectly, though she only had the one glass.

They passed the time talking about life in Ballarat; it seemed easier away from the town and the gossips; her life before she had gone to work with Thomas, Christopher and his abandoning of her. He didn't comment on Christopher's lack of moral fibre or sympathise with her. He didn't think she would like that, sympathy, after all this time. He told her more about his life in Edinburgh and Singapore, how he had met Mei Lin and how the war had come to them. He stopped short of telling her about the camp, that was not dinner conversation.

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Lucien escorted Jean to her room and kissed her gently.

"Goodnight, Jean," he smiled, "sleep well."

She looked at him, coyly, but still unsure. Usually they kissed on the couch in the studio, quite passionately, this was rather restrained and she wasn't sure she liked it, much. Of course, if she invited him into her room, things could very well get out of hand. At home she had plenty of wicked thoughts about her and Lucien and would lie in bed at night imagining his hands on her, everywhere. Not very catholic thoughts.

Another couple passed them and looked, Jean blushed and unlocked her door. Suddenly their floor seemed to get rather busy so to try and appear as if everything was quite normal she gentle touched his arm and he followed her.

"I don't like being stared at," she murmured to his raised eyebrows. "We were getting those kind of looks ..." she hoped he got her meaning.

"I understand," he smiled softly, but, he nodded over to the small couch, "as we're here ..."

The couch may have been small but it was quite adequate for their needs. They went further than they did at home, more buttons were undone and Lucien's hands strayed above her stocking tops and inside the top of her dress. He had taken his jacket off when they had sat down and she had removed his tie and undone enough shirt buttons to get her hands on his chest and feel the hairs over the muscles that were very much recovered since he had come home.

She could feel him through his trousers, very much aroused but common sense and experience told her this would not go well for her if she gave in to their desires. If only she had thought to sneak some 'supplies' from the surgery before they left. She gasped as he undid her bra and slipped his hand round to cup her small breast and pass his thumb over her nipple, raised and hard as a pearl. She groaned, a sound he found erotic and almost enough to have him disgrace himself.

"God Jean," he breathed in her ear, "I want you so much."

"Lucien, we can't," she whispered, as if the walls could hear and would tell their secret, "last time ..."

"It would be alright, sweetheart," he reached into his trouser pocket, "really," he showed her the packet he had pulled out of the cabinet at the last minute.

"Lucien," she squeaked, but she had had the same thoughts so she couldn't be angry, really. At least this time it would be in a comfortable bed, not the barn or wherever Christopher had pulled her into. She pulled him down to a searing kiss, that he took to mean 'yes'.

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She woke tangled with his naked body and sighed. Letting Lucien make love to her had been more than she could ever have imagined. He had filled her both physically and emotionally with all he was. Though they had continued to undress each other none too slowly the subsequent loving was slow and deep. He had entered her slowly, marvelling in her heat and wetness, looming over her, drinking in her beauty, her slender body, neat breasts; that were now marked; and slowly and deliberately set up a rhythm that increased as she urged him on. She shattered first but he was quick to follow with a final thrust. He felt her tighten around him and hold him as long as she could.

When his arms had finally given out he had rolled to her side and pulled her over him letting her drift off to sleep before he slipped out to the bathroom and sorted himself out.

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The bath eased muscles she hadn't used in many a year and she smiled as Lucien called through he was off to his own room to prepare for the day. She was a little sore, Lucien was more ... better ... endowed, than Christopher had been but she was sure she would get used to it, with a little more practise, maybe that night? She knew she had crossed the line she had drawn for herself, where she would not sleep with him until they were married, and they wouldn't be able to, at home. Perhaps they should visit Helen more often.

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Lucien checked left and right out of the doorway and practically ran down to his own room. He was inside before anyone else appeared. He grinned. Maybe he shouldn't have been prepared, maybe he should have left it at the chaste kiss at her door but he didn't and he was prepared. He showered, cleaned his teeth and dressed. A different suit, clean shirt and tie, hair tidied into place he was ready to escort Jean to breakfast and to put his wicked thoughts about her to one side, if he could. He had thought she would be a little shy, cautious perhaps in her love making, but he couldn't have been further from the truth. Jean had been a willing lover, embraced everything he gave her. He wondered if she would be so willing again, perhaps that night.

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Again Jean gave herself a stern talking to, what they had done was not what they should have done, true. However, if she confessed, privately, to god then perhaps she would be forgiven. People in Ballarat would always look down their noses at her because she had become pregnant out of wedlock, had divorced the father and was not living with two widowers, one of whom was the most eligible bachelor in town.

"Really, " she told her reflection, "you can't do right for doing wrong, so ... take what life has to offer, Jean. Lucien wants to marry you, one day you will be Mrs Blake and you will not be pregnant when you take your vows." She nodded her head stiffly and pursed her lips, "breakfast, last night has given you an appetite." She grinned and tossed her head as she left the bathroom and gathered up her jacket, as Lucien knocked on the door.

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For such a small building the school was quite imposing. Jean supposed it was the dark brickwork and deep-set large windows that made it such. They had looked into the type of school it was, a boarding school taking in children from the age of five to sixteen, mostly children of those serving in the armed forces which only allowed a certain amount towards fees. The head teacher, a Miss Gallagher, was prim and tight-lipped as she stood on the step waiting to greet Dr Blake and his companion. He hadn't said he was bringing anyone else with him, it must be his wife, she thought, as the morning sun caught her wedding ring.

"Dr Blake, Mrs Blake," she nodded, "please, do come in."

Lucien opened his mouth to say Jean was his housekeeper, Mrs Beazley, but a gentle pressure on his arm told him to keep quiet.

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The office was quite large, surprisingly well furnished, somewhere to work comfortably in, away from the chatter of the children.

"So, I believe you knew Major Alderton," Miss Gallagher sat at her desk.

"We served together," Lucien nodded, "Singapore."

"I see," she pursed her lips, "well, he just enrolled Helen here and that was all we saw of him. He said her mother had died and he was a serving officer with no other way of caring for a child. She spent Christmas here, with me."

Jean shuddered inwardly, that can't have been much fun for the child, she thought.

"Well, as Major Alderton has no other family, I thought, perhaps ..." Lucien tailed off.

"We thought it would be an idea if she knew something about him," Jean took over, "knew she wasn't alone in the world. If she likes perhaps she could spend the holidays with us, we have other children." Miss Gallagher didn't need to know those children were her daughter, his daughter and a foster child.

Jean's face gave nothing away and Lucien just smile benevolently.

"Perhaps she would like to come out for lunch with us," Lucien offered, "it being Saturday."

"I suppose so," Miss Gallagher hummed, "not too late back, though, no later than five, supper then evening prayers."

"Lovely," he beamed.

Miss Gallagher rand a bell and when the little maid appeared told her to fetch the Alderton girl and have her dressed to go out.

"Ma'am," she bobbed and hurried away.

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The maid tidied Helen's hair and adjusted her uniform so it didn't look as big as it was. The clothes the girl had arrived with were too small for her and she wore only the uniform supplied by the school. She plopped her hat on her head and took her by the hand.

"What does he look like?" Helen asked in a whisper.

"Oh, he's very handsome," the maid smiled, "looks really kind. His wife, well I suppose that's who she is, the woman with him, is pretty."

Just at the foot of the stairs and out of earshot of the head teacher's office she bent down and whispered in Helen's ear.

"If he asks you if you want to go and live with them say yes, Miss Helen," she looked around conspiratorially, "it's got to be better than here."

"Oh, Lizzie, should I?" Helen's eyes grew round, "would I be happier?"

"Well you're not happy here, love, are you?"

Helen shook her head, Lizzie was the nearest thing to a friend she had, hid all the things that were wrong, the wet bed sheets on the occasions she had a nightmare, the missing socks that had been pinched by the other girls who looked down on her or ignored her.

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Jean and Lucien looked round as the door opened not knowing what to expect. In walked the maid with a small child in tow. The child was tiny, her uniform obviously meant for her to grow into, which made her look smaller. One sock had slid down her leg and she looked down at the floor. They could see her hair was auburn, curly and tied in lopsided bunches.

"Head up child," Miss Gallagher grunted, "posture. And pull your socks up!"

Helen pulled up the errant sock and looked up. She had quite the scattering of freckles across her cheeks and nose and beautiful green eyes. She had none of her father's looks, which, Lucien found, pleased him. With auburn hair, freckles and green eyes she could easily pass for a child of his and Jean's.

"This is doctor and Mrs Blake, they would like to take you out for lunch." Miss Gallagher sniffed, "mind your manners."

Helen bobbed like a servant.

Lucien stood up and held out his hand to her, "it is so nice to meet you, Helen."

Helen took his hand and ventured a small smile, Lizzie was right, he was handsome, like a prince from a fairy tale.

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Helen smiled as she lay in bed. Uncle Lucien and Auntie Jean, for that is what they had suggested she call them, had taken her to a small restaurant for lunch where she had been allowed to choose her meal and, joy of joys, had ice cream for dessert. They had gone for a walk, answered all her questions and Lucien had been quite complimentary about the man who had slept with his wife, Jean thought, describing him as a brave soldier who had been cruelly treated.

"We wondered if you would like us to come and see you again, Helen," Jean bent down as they headed back to the school, "we'd like to visit, but only if you want us to."

"Really," the green eyes were as round as saucers, "you would come and see me again?"

"Of course, and," Lucien whispered, "if you like, you could come and stay with us, during the holidays."

Helen flung her arms round him and buried her head in his midriff. Jean stifled a giggle.

"I take it that's a yes, then" he laughed.

"Oh please, Uncle Lucien," she gasped, "can I?"

"Next term break, we shall come and collect you," Jean agreed, "it's quite a long train journey for a young one."

"Thank you, thank you," she hugged both of them, "thank you."

She had told Lizzie all that had happened and Lizzie gave her a calendar to mark off the days until Dr and Mrs Blake came to collect her.

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They had seven weeks, Jean cuddled against him in bed, seven weeks before Helen came to stay for the term break, and in that seven weeks they had decided they would marry.

"Do you think we can?" Jean asked, kicking off her shoes, "that quick."

"Registry office," he opened his arms to her, "doubt we can get church, but ..."

"Right," she leant against his chest, "legal, no more of these," she reached into his pocket and lifted the condoms, "civil wedding will be fine."

"Are you sure, your faith ..." he stopped trying to undo the buttons on her blouse, "I thought ..."

"Lucien," she sighed, "I love you, I want to be your wife and even though we said we would wait, and tongues will wag, we've rather put the cart before the horse, this weekend."

"True, my dear," he continued his quest to undress her, and she hers, "let's see what we can do when we get home."

After that, they had stopped talking and concentrated on loving.


	19. Chapter 19

The journey home from Brisbane revolved around how they should go about organising a wedding. Even though they were both convinced it would not be possible to have a church wedding, Lucien wasn't bothered either way, Jean said she would see if Father Morton had room in the schedule. She thought it would be nice to do it right, this time, not have to get married and wear a more suitable dress.

"Jean, I want you to be happy," Lucien put his arm round her and kissed the top of her head, "if Father Morton can oblige I will be willing to stand in church and make my vows."

"You are a darling," she snuggled closer, "I know you haven't retained your faith ..."

"I rather had it knocked out of me, dearest," he sighed, "but it is important to you, so it is important to me."

"Well, we shall see, shan't we?" she tipped her head and kissed his jaw line.

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Father Morton was surprised to see Jean at his house. He only ever saw her in church, or when she came to make confession. His view of the young housekeeper had softened over the years, she seemed to have grown to be a strong and respectable woman and her daughter was a delightful girl. There were no stories about her courting, or seeing men after her annulment so why on earth was she here?

"I'm sorry to call without phoning first, father," she smiled, "but, as I have just dropped the girls off for school I thought I would take the opportunity to come and see you. I have a favour to ask."

"Come in Mrs Beazley," he stepped back, "Mrs Toohey, some tea, please," he called to his housekeeper.

"Right away, father," a voice from the kitchen floated through.

They waited until Mrs Toohey had served the tea and left to fetch some groceries. Jean was glad she wouldn't be in the house, not knowing if she would listen at the door and gossip afterwards.

"I have received a proposal of marriage, which I have accepted," she sipped the tea, "and I was wondering if it would be possible to have a small ceremony at Sacred Heart ... in the next seven weeks."

She watched for his reaction.

"Rather quick, Mrs Beazley," he hummed, and there it was, the implication that she had slipped up again.

"Firstly, father, I must assure you, I do not have to get married, this is not a marriage of convenience. My fiancé and I are in love, he is a respected member of the community and would never put me in that position." She ignored what they had done that weekend, after all, they had taken precautions.

"So why the hurry?"

"My fiancé lost a close friend recently and he left a daughter, such a young child to be left on her own. We would like to adopt her," they had briefly touched on the idea on the train home, "and we can't, if we aren't married. We had intended to wait a little longer, he only came home from the war last year ..."

"Does she have no other family?"

"No, her mother passed away last year, she is only six," Jean was beginning to think he was going to say he had no spaces for months.

"She will be brought up in the catholic faith?" he wondered. Mary was, and Jean had brought the other half Chinese child to mass.

"As are Li and Mary," she inhaled, "we don't want a full Catholic mass, father, we are both widowed; Christopher died in a prison camp; just a blessing. If you aren't willing, then we will have a civil ceremony."

Father Morton looked at her. He was beginning to mellow, realise that life was not so cut and dried between the sinners and the pure of heart. Jean Beazley, he thought, in spite of everything was pure of heart. She had, after all, found it in her heart to organise a catholic funeral for her parents even though she was estranged from her mother. He stood and went to his desk to retrieve the church diary.

"Well, " he hummed, "it being autumn and fewer weddings in this season and winter, I can perform a short service in ... let me see ... ah yes, a cancellation, just over four weeks - June fourteenth?"

"I think that sounds perfect," she smiled, wondering if she could get dresses made for the girls, as bridesmaids and one for herself in four weeks. Because this time she was having a dress more suited to a bride. Not the white, virginal type, cream, she thought, not full length, no veil - something elegant and befitting a doctor's wife.

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Lucien was happy that Jean was happy and Thomas was ecstatic that his son was taking Jean as his wife. He could die happy after this, but had no intention of doing so, next he was going to wait for grandchildren, a grandson perhaps ...

"Thomas," Jean broke through his thoughts, "Thomas, I have a favour to ask."

"Ask away dear girl," he grinned.

"I have no one to give me away," she laughed at his happiness, "I was wondering, though you won't be giving me away, more taking me in - again."

"I thought you'd ask Matthew, or Bill, but dear Jean, I would be delighted."

"Matthew is Lucien's best man," she kissed his cheek, "and, thank you."

"I suppose the girls are bridesmaids?"

"I had some trouble getting Sylvia to agree," she nodded, "but, as I pointed out to her, what would people think, if I left her out. I do want her to be with our two, though, she is family."

"That's what Lucien said, at Christmas."

"He did, didn't he," she headed back to the kitchen to continue preparations for dinner.

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Lucien paced the studio, waiting for Jean to finish in the kitchen. She had shooed him out of the way while she finished portioning left-overs to go in the freezer. He had agreed that they should take advantage of the date offered by Father Morton but something was playing on his mind, something he didn't want to discuss in front of the family. He had played with her wedding ring whenever he had held her hand, she still wore it to keep the gossips at bay, but knew he would like her to take it off. She would, when the time was right, now was not the time. They had three and a half weeks, and at the moment she hadn't gone public with the impending marriage. Even the girls had been sworn to secrecy.

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"Why, mama?" Li had tipped her head to one side, "surely it is something you should be congratulated on."

"Yes love, ordinarily I would agree," she hugged her, "but with your papa and I living in the same house people are likely to think we are living as man and wife, when we aren't. "

"People can be cruel, Li" Thomas added, "they don't like to think the best of people, they like to imagine the worst and gossip."

"The banns will be read at the weekend, sweetie," she smiled, "then the sniggering will start and they will think I have to get married, rather than it is just because your father and I love each other."

Jean knew the next three weeks were going to be a minefield for her, dodging the snide comments and she had told Lucien that she had better not get pregnant on her wedding night.

"We can take precautions for the first month, if that will help," he held her close one night, "perhaps I could fit you for a diaphragm."

It was an odd conversation to have with one's fiancé, she thought, but he was a doctor. It would make sense, but she was worried that a diaphragm would take the spontaneity out of their lovemaking, unless she put it in before they retired, every night.

"No, darling man," she patted his cheek, "I'm prepared to take the risk"

"Well, there's always the current arrangement," he winked.

Jean felt another visit to Brisbane was in order, if she didn't have so much to do!

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She left the kitchen, all the tasks completed and headed for the studio to find out what was playing on Lucien's mind.

"Ah, there you are," he stepped towards her and took her hands in his, "Jean, about this very short engagement - you need a ring." It came out in a rush but it was what was bothering him, she realised.

"That's a lovely idea, Lucien," she smiled, "I suppose it's expected but you don't have to."

"I am not having Ballarat sneer because I haven't bought you a ring, and you deserve one. I want things done properly," he wrapped his arms around her.

"If you wanted things done properly, dear Lucien," she whispered, "then Brisbane shouldn't have happened." She giggled.

He laughed and kissed her firmly on the forehead. "Agreed. Now, about this ring."

"Where are you suggesting we go, Sam?" she tipped her head and looked at him.

"Or we could go to Melbourne - for the weekend," he smirked.

"Dr Blake!" she hissed, "are you suggesting..?"

He shrugged, "why not?"

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The girls at school, Thomas taken to the club by Matthew on his day off, it was only the two of them in the house. There was, thankfully, no mysterious death to investigate, peace, silence, a chance.

Jean locked the doors and took the phone off the hook. Daring, she knew, naughty, of that there was no doubt but after one weekend with Lucien, she needed another intimate moment.

They had petted, rather heavily, in the studio when the rest had gone to bed, Lucien had used his fingers to take her over the edge, then taken himself in hand later. There was one time he had almost suggested she take him in her mouth, but he wasn't sure if she had ever done such a thing with Christopher. He had used his mouth on her but that was another thing entirely. There had been an evening when she had appeared in her night things, after a bath, and he had used his father's shower, after a particularly trying case, and settled in the studio in his pyjamas and robe. They had drunk their drinks and started kissing and fondling but that was all they dared to do.

This time, in the quiet of the afternoon hands had wandered, so had lips and tongues and he had suddenly lifted up from her.

"Just a minute," he shot out of the room and she heard him pull a drawer in the cabinet. He returned, smiling, locked the door and resumed kissing and touching, tasting and marking her.

She pulled him onto the rug in front of the fire and smiled. They undressed each other, taking the time to appreciate skin and shape, scars and marks, to admire each other.

They made love right there. She 'dressed' him and straddled him. This was new, usually Christopher had been on top but she had read a few magazines and listened to a few asides, and decided that she should be in charge. The weekend in Brisbane had taught her to be braver, to be more than a quick fumble in the barn.

He loved seeing her come apart above him, arch and groan as he thrust into her and held her while she held him. It was glorious and he was sure that even after they were married they could lock the studio after the family had gone to bed and delight in each other.

By the time everyone returned and Matthew had gone to collect Dr Harvey to join them for dinner Jean and Lucien were engaged in more usual activities. He was reading in the living room and Jean was in the kitchen preparing the roast chicken and vegetables.

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The talk over dinner was of the wedding. Alice had been invited and accepted, not wanting to appear rude or standoffish, but as Matthew would be there she felt reasonably comfortable about it. She was completely relaxed when she had meals at the Blake house, it had become usual for her after Christmas and nobody laughed at her comments about whatever they were talking about or gave her a strange look - she felt accepted, and that was all she wanted.

Everybody noticed the closeness between the two but nobody mentioned it or suggested it should be a double wedding, though Mary had thought it.

"I'm taking Jean to Melbourne, at the weekend," Lucien declared, "to get the rings."

"Just for the day?" Thomas asked, innocently.

"That's the plan," Jean jumped in, "it shouldn't take more than a couple of hours." She went a little pink.

"Unless you want to get anything else," Lucien added, "shoes, perhaps?"

She stared at him, what would he know? He shrugged and grinned. She shook her head and sighed as she started to collect the plates and take them to the sink.

"We'll do that, mum," Mary stood up and took the dishes, "you go and have a drink with the others."

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"So, the banns are being read this weekend?" Matthew swirled his whisky in his glass.

"They are," Jean heaved a sigh, "then the talk will start, that I have to get married, again," she rolled her eyes.

"Don't worry, Jean," Thomas leaned over and patted her arm, "as your doctors, Lucien and I can confirm that is not the case."

"I'd rather Lucien said nothing, Thomas," Jean huffed, "I don't want him defending my honour, that will look as if he has something to hide, if you do you can be righteously indignant and everyone will believe you, not that there would be anything not to believe," she added hastily.

"Knowing how people talk," Alice murmured, "if you were eighty years old they would still be of the same opinion."

"Small minded, that's what they are," Matthew agreed with her, "nothing else to do but talk about other people when it is none of their business."

Jean surmised from this that he and Alice were being talked about and agreed, it was nobody's business but their own.

"There are plenty in Ballarat that have no room to talk," Jean huffed, "I could name quite a few, but won't, and believe you me, they are the first ones to point the finger."

"I don't doubt it at all," Lucien squeezed her hand.

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"They're being talked about," Jean whispered as they stood watching Alice and Matthew drive off.

"Yeah," Lucien slipped his arm round her waist, "Alice has hinted as much in the morgue, occasionally. I think it's getting to her."

"Oh dear," she sighed, "do you think I should offer an ear, or a shoulder?"

"How do you deal with it?"

"As I said, I know enough secrets, I just remember them and if necessary remind them about how early their first child came, after the wedding ..." she closed the door, "I don't have room to talk, and I don't. We all make mistakes, Lucien, some of which we pay for for the rest of our lives. I made the best of mine and it worked out very well."

"You know, I'm rather glad you did make that mistake, I wouldn't have met you otherwise."

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The visit to Melbourne went well, Lucien found the perfect jewellers and the ring they chose for her engagement ring was beautiful. A diamond, round cut with the shoulders shaped like leaves with small diamonds set into them, and she finally took off her wedding ring. Right up until he had paid for that and the two plain gold wedding rings she had told him it wasn't necessary but even she had to admit it was lovely. They had lunch in a small restaurant and he didn't suggest that they 'miss' the train home. They only had three weeks to get through.

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"What are you two whispering about?" Jean pushed open the study door to find her fiancé and his father deep in conversation.

"I was just telling Lucien that I am perfectly capable of taking surgery for a week, while you two go on a short honeymoon, Sydney, maybe?" Thomas smiled, "you can't just get married and not have some time to yourselves."

"Oh," she folded her arms, "I never thought about it, to be honest."

"It would be nice, though, Jean," Lucien smiled, "even if I would like to take you around the world, Sydney, we could go to the theatre, perhaps."

"If you're worried about the girls Matthew and Alice could come to stay," Thomas suggested.

"I think they have enough to deal with without the girls watching for signs of romance," Jean huffed, "but I think we can trust you to behave, Thomas."

"So, I should find us a hotel then?" Lucien raised his eyebrows.

"Alright, then," she left them to it, for once happy to be organised.

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"Right, Alice," Lucien dropped the scalpel into the dish, "go up and see Jean, she is getting it too, she has some put downs you may like."

"Lucien ..."

"You are not in the right frame of mind to work," he folded his arms, she had been bad tempered ever since she had walked into the morgue that morning, even suggesting she find alternative lodgings. Lucien had soon got it out of her that it wasn't her landlord that had upset her but some nasty remarks by a couple of women she had passed in the hospital car park.

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Jean was surprised to see Alice on her doorstep, obviously not in the best of moods. She took her down to the kitchen and put a cup of tea and some freshly made sponge cake in front of her.

"Come on, Alice," she smiled, "spill the beans."

"I'm sorry Jean," she sighed, "it just got to me this morning. I've got used to the odd looks, it's not as if they have changed much, it was the remark about living in sin and being nothing more than a strumpet, was the word used. All because my address is the same as Inspector Lawson's."

"Don't suppose you know who it was do you?"

"About my height, dark hair, tightly permed, thin lipped, small eyes, blue I think, or grey, thin, wearing a blue wool coat, not very well fitting. Sorry don't know her name, I would say she is a little older than us." Alice closed her eyes while she recalled the woman. "She was with a blonde tarty looking woman, bright lipstick, tight skirt."

Jean nodded, she knew them and smiled at the 'tarty' description. "I think I know who you mean," she put her cup down, "and you don't need to take any notice. Margie Steel and Esme Rolands are sisters, believe it or not. Margie married young and has a son, Graham. Strangely, although she has always been one of Thomas' patients he never treated her during her pregnancy. Esme has never married but she is never short of a man friend. She disappeared for six months not long after Margie married, then all of a sudden Margie had a son. Oddest birth I've ever heard of."

"I think I see where you are going with this," Alice started to look relaxed, "that the boy is actually Esme's son and Margie has never had children."

"Quite, and he has more of Esme's colouring than Margie's."

"So, if she says anything ..."

"Just ask after Graham, that's what I do," Jean grinned, "usually shuts her up. Esme too."

"Thank you, Jean. I know I shouldn't let it get to me, it's just well some times during the month I get a little testy."

"Understood, poor Matthew."

"Actually, he seems to understand, at least, he doesn't do anything to upset me."

"Always was a smart man."

"I bet."

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The three weeks passed very quickly. Jean ignored the tittle tattle in town and Alice just looked down her nose every time she saw Esme with a different man, or slipping a packet of condoms into her handbag the day Alice popped into the chemist to buy some Bex. Not very subtle, she thought, much better if she bought them somewhere she wasn't known. The chemist served her with his usual efficiency but Alice could see he did not approve of his previous customer.

"Everything alright, Mr Jackson?" Alice handed over the money for her purchase.

"Hm, not a good advert for Ballarat, that one," he passed her her change, "but I suppose I should be grateful she takes precautions, these days."

"Thank you," she left feeling much happier. She wasn't sleeping with her landlord, and if she was she would make sure Matthew got anything they needed for that anywhere but Ballarat, discretion was always the better form of valour.

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The day of the wedding dawned cool, the autumn sun filtering through the leaves of the trees. Lucien had stayed at Matthew's overnight, they would go down to the church together. A car had been organised for Jean and the girls and Thomas, the Riley not deemed to be reliable enough.

Jean helped the girls dress, she had used the silk Lucien had bought in Singapore for their dresses, there was enough to make one for Sylvia out of the same colour he had bought Mary. Simple dresses, with three quarter length sleeves and a stand collar on a boat neck. Fitted bodices and full skirts, Jean thought they looked lovely. Her dress was of ivory shantung silk, panel shaped to the waist and flared to mid calf length. She wore a short bolero style jacket over the top of the short sleeved bodice. The dress fastened down the back with tiny pearl buttons that the girls did up for her. The outfit was finished off with a small shallow pill box hat with veil over her forehead, and plain cream court shoes.

"Mum," Mary stood back, "you look beautiful."

"Thank you, sweetheart," Jean smiled, "shall we go and see what gran'papa thinks?"

Thomas was standing in the living room, not daring to sit in case he creased his suit. Grey three piece, starched white shirt and a tie Jean had made out of Mary's silk. Lucien's tie was made out of the silk he bought for Li and Matthew's was the same as Thomas'. He gasped when he saw his future daughter in law.

"You look exquisite, my dear," he stepped forward and took her hand, "Lucien is a very lucky man."

"I'm a very lucky woman," she smiled back, "that he would choose a simple housekeeper for his wife."

"Housekeeper you may be, Jean," Thomas tutted, "never simple."

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Lucien held his breath as he heard the sound of footsteps behind him in the church. Matthew turned and grinned,

"No worries, mate," he whispered, "no worries at all."

He could barely get his vows out as he stared at this vision in front of him, declaring she would love and honour him, she has suggested he vow to obey her, and he very nearly did,

"...'til death do us part."

There was a spontaneous burst of applause as he kissed his wife and she blushed just a little.

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The reception was held at the Colonist's Club, Thomas has asked Cec to arrange it for their closest friends, the ones who knew them best. The Clasby sisters, some supportive patients, Bill Hobart. It was a small but select gathering and Jean was grateful for that. She knew all eyes would be on her waistline over the next few months but she could hold her head up high.

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Thomas turned the large envelope round in his hand. It bore the postmark 'Brisbane' and the only person they knew there was little Helen Alderton. Neither Lucien nor Jean had worried that the little girl hadn't written to them, at her age it would be all or nothing though they had written a couple of times. He shook the package and felt there was more than one letter in there. Jean had told him they had given Helen six ready stamped and addressed envelopes for her to write to them, but the writing on this envelope was neither of theirs. It was neat but childishly formed, uneducated he thought.

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Lizzie had crossed her fingers when she put the envelope in the box. She had found Helen's letters in the waste paper bin in the office, by Miss Gallagher's desk. Usually it was Miss Gallagher that took the letters to the post box, after checking for spellings, but for some reason she had seen fit to throw these ones away. Lizzie had said nothing to Helen, the little girl was looking forward to the doctor and his wife coming to see her and take her for the term break. So far they had had three weeks with no nightmares and therefore no wet beds, to tell her the letters hadn't been sent would set her back.

She checked the letters and found that Helen had said that she was looking forward to staying with them, that she had been a good girl at school (which Lizzie knew meant the bed) and thanked them for the lovely lunch and ice cream. She had said that both Miss Gallagher and Miss Hobson had been sharp with her when she said she had been allowed ice cream and told her off for asking for such a treat. When she had said she hadn't asked she had been offered she had been smacked and sent to sit in the punishment cupboard.

"So that's why you haven't sent the letters," Lizzie muttered to herself, "you mean cow! She only told the truth."

Helen had told Lizzie all about Uncle Lucien and Auntie Jean and how they had other children at home all girls, though one was a friend of the eldest who was staying with them. She told her that Uncle Lucien worked with the police and Auntie Jean helped run the doctor's surgery.

So Lizzie had decided to send all the letters at once and leave the doctor to deal with it.

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Jean and Lucien had a wonderful week in Sydney, they had been to the theatre walked in the parks and enjoyed being by themselves. They did miss the family just enough, but not enough to phone and find out if they were alright. Lucien had given his father the number of the hotel, just in case, but Thomas was determined not to use it, and he didn't.

They arrived back home in time for dinner, prepared by the girls, and were greeted with hugs and shouts of delight. Jean noticed how clean and tidy the house was, Thomas looked happy and well, pride written all over his face. This was where she was meant to be, she smiled, with her family.

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They waited until the girls and Thomas had retired to bed before opening the package from Brisbane. There were three letters from Helen and a note from Lizzie.

Lizzie apologised for lifting the letters from the waste basket.

"Dear Dr Blake,

I found these in Miss Gallagher's waste bin. I hope I did right, sending them to you, but Miss Helen has been so happy since your visit and she only tells the truth. The other girls are not kind to her especially now that she has no family. She is not the youngest here but the only one without family to back her up so she has always got the short straw. I guess the Misses didn't want you to see them because Miss Helen told you she got in trouble for the ice cream. The cupboard is a tiny place with no light by the Misses office. She was in there all night and got into trouble for the mess she made.

Please take her away from here, I love the poor little mite but this is not the place for one so sweet.

Lizzie"

Jean was horrified and the both knew what the 'mess' was that Lizzie referred to.

"What do we do, Lucien?" she bit her lip, "we aren't due for two weeks. If we turn up early Miss Gallagher will know we have seen Helen's letters and have been tipped off. Lizzie might lose her job."

"Well," he pulled her close on the couch, "while you were busy organising the wedding I got in touch with Family Welfare in Brisbane, told them all about young Helen and that we wondered if we would be allowed to adopt her. They agreed it would be a possibility as we were getting married, but, understandably, wanted to know if we had any interest in her inheritance."

"Of course we don't," she sniffed, "what a thought, indeed."

"Which is precisely what I said, and even said I was prepared to invest the estate in an account for her, that she could access once she reached twenty one. I thought that was a good age, you?"

"I don't see why not," Jean agreed, "she will have finished college or university by then, it will start her out in life."

"Quite."

"So, what do we do now?"

"I suggest that in the morning we write to Miss Gallagher and Miss Hobson; interesting relationship;" he mused," and tell them we are going to take Helen for the term break as previously arranged. Then I'll ring FW in Brisbane and let them know to meet us there. We can always go a couple of days early, book into a hotel ..."

"... not the same one," Jean nudged him.

"What, oh, yes, right," he got what she was saying, "anyway we want one with a small room attached to ours, for Helen."

"We do," she nodded, "and I need to sort a room out for her, here."

"Which one will she use?"

"The only one free is mine, really," she sighed, "but it has a double bed."

"What about the little one next to it?"

"It has the cot in, and no bed."

"So, we put the cot away, in the garage, and get a bed." He shrugged, to him it was easy, and really, it was.

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Sorting out the room for Helen wasn't the only furniture they had to move. Somehow they had to get Jean's wardrobe into Lucien's room and it was going to be a tight fit.

"Perhaps the other room, down the hall," Lucien suggested, "it was always the guest room, and is bigger than mine."

"It already has a wardrobe, bigger than either of ours so perhaps we can use that, together," Jean thought, "and a dressing table with mirror. And," she whispered, "we will be further away from your father ..." she left the rest hanging in the air, she could be a little bit vocal when she climaxed.

It took over a week before they were completely rearranged. They determined Lucien's old room would be the new guest room, the little room that had the cot in got a new single bed and small chest of drawers. The cot was dismantled and stored in Jean's old room, both hoping one day it would be used again. Jean thought it would be rather nice to provide Lucien with a son, before he got overrun with women.

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Jean ran her hands through her hair, Lizzie had written again, enclosing a short note from Helen and she felt it was now imperative Helen was removed from the school. She blamed Derek, more than the school, they were not equipped to look after a six year old, he would have been better handing her over to the local orphanage, or been honest with Lucien. Lucien agreed and said he would have probably sent Helen to live with his father without even thinking about any long term implications. Brisbane Family Welfare had looked into Dr Blake's situation, conferred with Ballarat and agreed that it would be better for the child if she were cared for by a family.

They explained to the girls and Thomas what they would be doing, that a six year old girl would be joining the family and needed to be made to feel welcome.

"We don't know what impact the school will have had on her behaviour," Lucien told them, "we do know she has nightmares and with that comes other issues, which are nothing to be concerned about, your mother may need some help with extra laundry and you may be woken in the night, we don't know."

"All we ask is that you be patient," Jean looked at Mary, " I know you don't remember how helpful you were when Li came to us, darling, but I know you will be just as helpful with Helen."

"I remember she was rather stubborn," Mary laughed, "but you say Helen is six, so we won't have that particular issue, this time."

"No, but .." Jean sighed.

"It's ok, mama," Li smiled, "we'll all help, she needs to know we love her, that's all."

"Bless you, Li," Lucien's eyes filled with tears, "you're quite right. So, we are off to Brisbane tomorrow and will return with Helen, we hope. Her latest letter says she is really excited to be coming to stay, but she thinks it is only for a holiday. We didn't want to get her hopes up, but Lizzie, the maid, says she is repeatedly punished for small transgressions which are often not her fault, like a missing sock or mussed up bed. It's usually one of the other children who have families and are used to fighting their own battles."

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"Well at least we'll be rid of her," Gertrude Hobson sniffed to her partner. They had received the letter from Dr and Mrs Blake announcing their intention to adopt Helen Alderton. "Trouble that one, has been since day one."

"True," Stella Gallagher nodded, "it was all quite peaceful until she arrived. Of course, not having the ground rules from parents didn't help and not being able to contact or bring her father in to sort out her behaviour hasn't helped, either."

"He was just glad to get her off his hands," Miss Hobson tossed her head, "well they can deal with her."

"Poor darling," Stella put her cup down, "come here and let me soothe you."

Gertrude went over to the couch and lay down with her head in Stella's lap and let her friend's hands work their magic.

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"Do you think we should do the journey home in two stages, Lucien?" Jean looked up from stitching some buttons onto a little dress she had been making for Helen. "It's awfully long for a child."

"Well we change trains at Sydney so we could stay overnight there, I suppose," he mused, "how do you know that will fit her?"

"What, oh, well, it's a pattern I used for Mary and Li, when they were four or five, and with Helen looking a little smaller than I remember either of them ..." she shook it out, "let's face it Lucien, she came out with us in an outsize school uniform so I'm guessing that's all she has. I'll take her shopping for a few things before we leave, the rest I can deal with at home."

"Right, so I suppose you won't want me on that trip, I'll see if I can sort out a stop in Sydney then."

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Jean decided to take the dress with them when they went to pick Helen up. Family Welfare had spoken to them that morning and they had signed the papers necessary to add Helen to their family. The school had offered no objection and had even said it would probably be best for the child.

Miss Gallagher looked them up and down, much more refined than she remembered them and there was something new about Mrs Blake she couldn't put her finger on. She sent Lizzie to fetch Helen and her suitcase.

"May I go with her?" Jean asked, innocently, "make sure she has everything."

"Lizzie, escort Mrs Blake to the infant dormitory."

Lizzie bobbed and smiled at Jean.

Once out of earshot Jean thanked her for sending on Helen's letters.

"Oh, Mrs Blake," Lizzie gasped, "Helen gets blamed for everything and most of it isn't her doing. She's so quiet and the other girls pick on her."

"We were worried about you possibly losing your job," Jean noted softly, "and we thought Helen needed you until we could do something about it."

"Huh," Lizzie tossed her head, "that won't happen, I know too much about those two, personally. Don't know how many parents would feel about their girls being looked after by a couple of women who aren't married and share a flat ... and bedroom."

"I see," Jean nodded. Other people's living arrangements were of no concern to her, but she was aware that her views were probably a little more liberal since she had come to know Lucien. "Still, keep in touch, won't you."

"Yes ma'am, just to hear what Helen get's up to," she grinned, "well, here she is." She opened a door and there was Helen sitting on a bed playing with a dilapidated small teddy bear.

"Auntie Jean!" she jumped up and ran at her, flinging her arms round her waist, "you came!"

"Of course, surely you didn't think we wouldn't?"

"The girls did, they said nobody wanted a little girl like me."

"Tosh," Jean kissed the top of the unruly auburn curls, "we do, very much. Now," she stood back and looked at her, "I don't think school uniform is the dress of the day, what say you , Lizzie?"

"All she's got, Mrs Blake," Lizzie shrugged.

"Well, how about you try this on," she took the dress out of her basket together with a cardigan.

"For me?" Helen's eyes were like saucers, "a new dress!"

Jean laughed and helped her undress, noting new underwear would go on the list to get that day. In her vest and knickers Jean could see just how tiny Helen was.

The grey cotton dress, with white Peter Pan collar and cuffs suited Helen, contrasting well with her hair. It was fitted to the waist and the gathered skirt ended at her knees. Jean added a white cardigan to the outfit and retied her hair with matching grey ribbons.

"What's in the suitcase, Lizzie?" Jean turned her attention to the small valise.

"Undies, pyjamas, socks, toothbrush," Lizzie recited, "clean uniform."

Jean opened it and looked through the items. "We won't bother, " Jean smiled, "get rid of it, please. Helen and I are going shopping this afternoon."

"Gardener's got a bonfire today," Lizzie grinned, conspiratorially, "we'll take it out, all normal like, and I'll run round to the back."

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"Uncle Lucien!" she ran down the hall, arms outspread.

"Helen!" Miss Gallagher shouted, but she didn't listen, she just flung herself into Lucien's arms and he swung her up high, before settling her on his hip.

"Well, hello there," he grinned, "that's quite a welcome."

"Do you like my new dress?"

"It's lovely, you look so pretty," he let her slip to the ground, "ah, her suitcase, shall we go?" He offered his arm to Jean and let Lizzie precede them.

"Thank you, Miss Gallagher," he tipped his hat politely, "we shall be in touch."

As the door closed behind them Helen looked up at her new parents, "is it true, what they said," she stared at them, "that I never have to back there, again?"

Lucien squatted down in front of her, "it's true, little one," he smiled and took her hand, "if you don't mind we thought, perhaps, you would like to stay with us."

"Forever?" her eyes were impossibly wide.

"Forever," he replied, seriously, "unless you have any objection."

She looked up at Lizzie.

"Told you, Miss," Lizzie smiled, holding back her tears, "I said not to take any notice of the other girls, you are a Blake now, isn't she, doctor?" she looked at Lucien.

"That she is, Lizzie, " he agreed, "Helen Alderton-Blake, to give her her full title."

"I'll miss you, Lizzie," Helen looked up at her friend, "thank you for being so kind to me."

"You are most welcome, Miss Helen, now, be a good girl, work hard at your studies and write to me, sometimes."

"I will," Helen nodded, "promise."

Lizzie watched them go then slipped round to the back of the school and emptied the suitcase onto the bonfire and then dropped the case on it.

"Hey, Lizzie," the gardener had watched her, "watch'er doin'?"

"Little Helen has gone to a good home, Fred," she smiled, "don't need that trash anymore."

"Good, " he nodded and raked the things further into the fire, "not the right kind of school for a littl'un like her."

"No," she nodded, dusted her hands and went into the kitchen for a well earned cup of tea.


	20. Chapter 20

Helen skipped happily between Jean and Lucien, asking a never ending stream of questions about the house, the other children, whose names she had remembered, Ballarat, until Jean had to stop her and tell her there was plenty of time for her to find out these things, but first ...

"I'll leave you two ladies to your shopping," Lucien stopped outside a children's outfitters, "I have arrangements to make." He kissed them both and sauntered off, smiling.

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Jean sat on the bed, exhausted. Helen had never been into such a shop for clothes, and Jean made the mistake of allowing her to choose some of the outfits. But Helen couldn't choose, she loved the green dress with dark green piping down the front, and the blue one with the daisies round the hem, and the lilac one.

"Green and blue suit you, darling," she smiled, "so, how about we have the green dress and the blue one, some blouses and skirts, then you can make each outfit different."

Helen nodded, so much for her, she had got used to wearing one outfit only and now she had at least four. Jean added enough underwear and socks for a week and three pairs of pyjamas and a robe.

"Shoes, sweetheart," she looked down at the scuffed sensible lace up shoes, "those are past their best."

"They're a bit tight, too," Helen bit her lip, she wasn't supposed to ask for things.

"We'll have your feet measured, then," Jean paid the bill and took her purchases.

"Can I carry some, Auntie Jean?" Helen held out her arms, "please."

Jean passed her the bag of underwear and they headed out to find a shoe shop.

And so it had gone on, they had arrived back at the hotel loaded down with purchases and gasping for a drink.

"Lunch, in our suite, ladies," Lucien smiled, taking a bundle off Jean, "then perhaps a nap?"

"Sounds perfect," Jean sighed watching Helen look all around and explore her small room next to theirs.

Lucien took over with Helen while Jean freshened up. He helped her put her new clothes in her room and let her choose the pyjamas she would wear that night.

A bell boy brought up a trolley with all manner of things for lunch, Helen had never seen such a feast and tried just about everything.

It was clear, after lunch, that Helen was not ready to nap or rest so Lucien said he would take her out to one of the local parks .

"You put your feet up, love," he smiled, "my turn."

"Don't go spoiling her, Lucien," Jean settled down on the bed, "just a walk in the park."

He waved as he left the room, and she had a feeling it would be ice cream and sweets.

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He too expected requests for ice cream and sweets, which he would have been hard pressed to refuse, but all Helen wanted to do was run around in the late autumn sun. She asked the names of the flowers and plants.

"Ah well, Auntie Jean is the one for those, Helen," he laughed, "I'm not very good with those. I'm a doctor, see. I know which ones are roses," he added seeing she was a tad disappointed he didn't know everything.

"Tell you what," he went down on one knee, "why don't we catch the bus and head over to the Koala Sanctuary?" He only knew that was a possibility because he had seen a bus pass them as they entered the park.

"Ok," she grinned and took his hand. The only time she had left the school before was for a regulation walk three times a week, and they never went anywhere like the Koala Sanctuary.

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Jean undressed down to her slip and slid under a blanket. She'd forgotten how exhausting small children could be and Helen was a little whirlwind. At home, she was certain, the older girls would be a help and once she had settled in it would be easier. Jean had no illusions, it would take time for Helen to adjust to her new life, she seemed to have unlocked the natural vivacity in the child, as if she had had her natural brightness dulled by the rigid school and the less than kind treatment. Of course, they would never know what her natural mother, Agnes, was like, unless Helen could tell them, but her memories would be childlike and not really the insight they could use to guide her through the coming months. She slipped into a doze still hoping Lucien wouldn't be too indulgent.

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Helen was beginning to flag by the time Lucien helped her off the bus outside the hotel. An early dinner followed by a bath and bed for her, he thought, then he and Jean could have some quiet time, together.

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Jean blinked in the late afternoon light shining through the gap in the curtains. She looked at her watch and decided she had better get up and dressed, Lucien must surely be on his way back with Helen and they would have to sort out the evening. Hopefully she would be ready for dinner and bed. They had an early start in the morning, to catch the train to Sydney.

Conversation over dinner centred around what they had seen at the Sanctuary, Lucien had bought her a small stuffed koala which she kept firmly tucked under her arm in case someone decided to take it off her. Jean could only sympathise but insisted it sat on the side while she had her bath.

"You don't want him getting wet, Helen," she soaped a sponge and wiped it down her back and over her shoulders.

"Can I have him in bed with me?" Helen lifted her chin so Jean could clean her neck and chest.

"Of course you can, both Mary and Li had a soft toy for bedtime," she smiled and dotted a bit of the suds on her nose.

"Can you wash my freckles off?"

"Why on earth would I want to do that?" Jean was shocked, "I think they're lovely."

"The other girls laugh at me."

"Helen, you aren't going back there, ever," Jean stopped washing her and looked at her, "you are part of our family now, freckles and all." She returned to washing her legs and feet.

"Does that mean you are my new mummy?" Helen drew her foot away as Jean tickled it.

"I am, didn't anyone tell you what 'adopted' means?"

She shook her head and bit her lip.

"It means," Lucien had heard everything and poked his nose round the door, "we are your new parents, because you haven't got any others, and we want you to be part of our family. Because," he stepped towards the bath and squatted down, "we love you, Helen and want you to be happy."

Helen leapt out of the bath, sending water and soap suds all over them, and flung her arms round Jean's neck.

"Steady on!" Lucien laughed, retrieving a towel and wrapping it round the small and slippery child. Jean let him take her and wiped her face and shoulders with another towel.

"I'll fetch her pyjamas," she laughed, "while you dry her off."

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Somehow they managed to get Helen into bed and asleep at a reasonable hour.

"Why do adults persist it keeping small children in the dark?" Jean huffed, "at least they could have told her more."

"I agree, they could have told her what it meant to be adopted," he took his wife in his arms, "she may not have wanted that."

"In her case I think they were just glad to get rid of her," Jean kept her voice low, not wanting to wake the sleeping child.

"You could be right, now," he spun her round and set her on the bed, "I have arranged that we fly to Melbourne tomorrow, quicker than train and around the same cost as the extra hotel room."

"I never thought of that," she smiled, "we shall be home when we said we would be."

"Indeed, now," he draped his tie over the bedpost, "did you have a good nap?"

"Yes, thank you," she smiled, "most refreshing," she lowered her eyes, coyly.

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The sound of Helen talking to her Koala woke Jean. Thankfully it wasn't too early and it made her smile. She knew Mary and Li had had private talks with their teddies when they were young, telling them things they had done that day, or were going to do. It would seem Helen would do the same, there would be things she could say to the toy that she would find it hard to tell another living soul. Jean stretched and reached over the side of the bed for her nightdress that somehow she had forgotten to put on the previous night - must have got distracted. Lucien shifted against her and grunted. She nudged him as she slipped the thin cotton garment over her head.

"Helen's awake," she whispered, "pyjamas."

"Uh? Wha'?" he blinked and swallowed. She waved the trousers at him, "oh, right," he rubbed his eyes and smirked.

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Helen was surprisingly easy to control on the plane. She was happy to listen to Lucien tell her stories, tales from the countries he had visited, countries he would like to take Jean to, one day, maybe the family, too. Jean's thoughts turned to more mundane matters, such as enrolling Helen in school, the one Li and Mary had gone to, as long as Miss Craven wouldn't be teaching her. Li would be going to Wendouree Grammar next year so wouldn't be there to keep a watchful eye over her, as Mary had done for her.

"Daddy," Helen gasped as they started the descent to the airstrip, "my ears hurt!"

"Swallow, hard," he took her face in his hands, "Jean do you have any boiled sweets?"

"Here," she unwrapped and passed him a barley sugar, "try this." She had heard that this was one way to stop the effects of a pressurised cabin on the ears and had picked some up in the airport.

Helens' eyes filled with tears as her ears 'popped' and she felt the relief. He pulled her into his arms and soothed her, "all over now, pet," he murmured.

Jean smiled at his ease with the child, he would have done the same for Mary or Li but because they had yet to get to know their third daughter it was doubly touching.

Lucien carried Helen down the aircraft steps and the three of them went to collect their luggage and find a taxi to take them to the station.

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"With luck we should be home for dinner," Jean checked the time of the train, "I've just got enough time to ring them so they aren't too surprised."

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Thomas answered the phone in the study. He had finished surgery early so he could be ready to meet his adopted granddaughter and had no distractions. He could update Lucien on the patients later, when the children were in bed, as he had done when they came back from Sydney.

"Ah, Jean, hello," he smiled, "everything alright?"

"Fine," she assured him, "just wanted to let you know we will be back on the five o'clock train. We flew from Brisbane, Lucien said it would be too long a journey by train for Helen."

"Capital," he laughed, "I shall let the girls know and dinner should be waiting for you."

"Lovely, tell Mary there is a stew in the freezer that will feed us all."

"I think she's found it and left it to defrost," Thomas thought back to a conversation he had had with the oldest of the children that morning, "just need some veggies and potatoes."

"Good, well, the train is just pulling in, so we'll see you later."

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Just as they were getting onto the train Jean noticed a familiar head in the crowd. She was sure she recognised the dark wavy hair falling just over the collar of a fitted blue coat.

"Lucien," she touched his arm, "isn't that Alice?" She pointed.

"I do believe it is, darling," he smiled, "must have had the day off."

The woman in question was shaking hands and smiling at a smaller red haired woman, dressed in tweed jacket, well cut trousers and fedora. As she turned, waving good bye, she noticed the fair hair and beard of her colleague and blushed, as if she was somewhere she shouldn't be. She couldn't ignore him or his wife and the little girl he had in his arms so, taking a deep breath and preparing herself for questions she went over to them.

"Hello, Alice," Lucien grinned, "escaped the morgue?"

"Day off," she huffed, "thought I'd visit an old friend, as I have nothing else pressing."

"Good for you," he laughed, "join us?"

"Oh er ..." she stuttered.

"We're on the way home," Jean smiled gently, "come and sit and get to know Helen."

"I suppose ..."

"You're pretty," Helen put her finger to her chin, "are you mummy and daddy's friend?"

"I er ..."

"Indeed she is Helen," Lucien jiggled the child, "meet Dr Harvey, she is a friend of all of us, she helps me and Uncle Matthew, who you have yet to meet ... he's a policeman."

"Lucien, at this rate .." Jean indicated the train.

"Of course, my dearest," he nodded, "ever keeping me on track. Now," he put Helen down who reached out for Jean's hand, "you keep close to mummy and I'll carry the cases, ok?"

Helen nodded and clutched her koala tight.

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Settled in the carriage and with the luggage stowed above them, the new family and their friend chatted about this and that, what had happened in Ballarat in the past few days,

"Honestly, Lucien," Alice was beginning to relax, "how much trouble can the town get into in three days?"

"You'd be surprised," he laughed.

"So," she decided the change the subject, "this is Helen?"

"It is," Jean lifted her onto her lap, in what Lucien termed, 'full protective mother mode', "we are happy to welcome her into the family."

"Well, Helen," Alice had thought this out, "you are a very lucky little girl, to be adopted by doctor and Mrs Blake, I know you'll be extremely well looked after, and loved."

"So, who's your friend?" Lucien sat back and observed his colleague, there was a look about her he wasn't sure of.

"Oh, Mac, she lectured when I was at university, medicine," Alice cleared her throat, "she did autopsies for the police, once upon a time."

"Bet she has some stories to tell," Lucien hummed.

"She does," but Alice was tight lipped, past cases weren't what she had gone to see Dr Macmillan about. "You'd get on well with her," she inhaled, "she's ... one of a kind."

Lucien opened his mouth to ask another question, but one look from his wife told him to change the subject or shut up.

"Quiet then?" Jean suggested.

"Nothing to bother the morgue with, or the police," Alice agreed. "I did look in on your father, he seemed to be handling surgery well."

"Thanks for that, Alice, he was ok when we went to Sydney, but long term I think he'd find it tiring."

"Can I go to the morgue, daddy?" Helen piped up, feeling a little left out, and what was a morgue, anyway?

"No!" three voices shouted, "certainly not," Jean huffed, "not the place for little girls."

"But ..."

"Sweetheart, it's where daddy and Dr Harvey look at bodies to see why they've died," Lucien could see she would not be put off with 'it's daddy's work', as a reason. "Not a nice place for pretty little girls like you." He patted her cheek.

Helen stuck out her bottom lip.

Jean laughed a little laugh and kissed her, "there are some things, sweetie, that you can't do, just yet, but as you get older ..."

"Oh," she seemed fairly satisfied with that and snuggled against Jean, all this travelling was getting tiring.

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As they alighted from the train Jean offered Alice dinner with them.

"We can call Matthew ..."

"No, no thank you," she shook her head, "you've got to get Helen settled and ..."

"Well, soon then," Jean smiled, "you know you are both welcome anytime."

"Thank you, I'll let Matthew know."

They watched her head off to her car, then hailed a taxi to take them home. Helen had dozed on the train but was now wide awake and looking all around at the new sights.

"Interesting," Lucien gave the driver the address.

"Now then, Lucien," Jean's voice had a warning tone.

He smiled and nodded.

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Mary and Li had the dinner ready and the table set when their parents and new sister arrived. They were both excited but Thomas has asked them to try to be calm.

"Helen isn't used to such happy surroundings, from what your mother told me," he smiled, "so just be nice and welcoming, friendly and happy but not shouting and squealing all over the place."

They nodded and listened but when Lucien opened the door they ran squealing up the hall and launched themselves into their arms.

"Well, hello to you too," he hugged Li and then Mary, while Jean reached with her free arm for the girls in turn. Helen hung on, her arms round Jean's neck and flinched at the sudden onslaught.

"That will do, girls," Jean smiled, "you've made Helen jump. Hello, Sylvia," she smiled at the other girl lingering on the edges of the family.

"Sorry mum, sorry Helen," Mary grinned, "hello, I'm Mary and this is Li, we're your new sisters, I 'spect mum has told you."

Helen tried a smile but Jean noticed her hold got tighter.

Thomas pottered up towards the group and chastised the older girls, mildly.

"I did tell them to be gentle," he smiled at Jean, "come on, you three, let's get you in. Mary, Li help your father with the suitcases. Jean, bring Helen into the lounge, let's start to get acquainted."

Both Jean and Lucien appreciated Thomas taking over a little. They were tired from travelling and knew Helen was a little weary.

Jean shrugged out of her coat and sat down on the couch. She helped Helen out of hers and lay it to the side.

"Well, sweetheart," she nuzzled the curls and kissed her, "that was a bit of a shock for you, wasn't it? This here is your new grandpa, he doesn't run about and shout."

"Hello Helen," Thomas stayed put in his chair across from the couch, "you are a very pretty little girl, just as your daddy said."

She smiled shyly but that suited him fine, he didn't expect her to rush into his arms.

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Mary and Li helped Lucien sort out the suitcases, put Helen's clothes in the small wardrobe and the laundry in the basket.

"Sorry papa," Li looked down.

"We were just so happy to have you back, and to meet Helen ... she is adorable," Mary confirmed, "we forgot all gran'pa had told us. We'll try to be quieter."

"Just be gentle, I know you can do that," he smiled and held his arms open for both of them, "she's spent a lot of time travelling with just mama and me, though she did meet Dr Harvey at the station, still, Alice doesn't rush around like you two."

Mary laughed at the thought of Dr Harvey rushing anywhere, she always seemed so unhurried.

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Over dinner Helen relaxed. She sat next to Jean and ate the meal placed before her, and although before she hadn't had the choice; either eat or starve; this was tasty. She cleared her plate and had room for a little peach cobbler and custard.

Mary noticed she had her little koala with her at all times, at the table he was tucked behind her.

"I like your koala," she smiled.

"Daddy bought him for me," Helen pulled him round and held him tight, "at the san ... san ..." she looked at Lucien for help.

"Sanctuary, pet," he smiled, "I took her to the Koala Sanctuary while your mother had a couple of hours break."

"I bet that was fun," Li sucked the last bit of dessert off her spoon.

"Yes."

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Jean showed Helen all she needed to see for that night, her bedroom, the bathroom and where her parents would be.

"I'll show you everything else tomorrow, love, for now, let's get you washed and into bed. You're tired."

"Ok, mummy," Helen yawned, "can my koala stay with me?"

"Of course he can," Jean smiled and tucked her into bed, "now, good night, sleep tight," she kissed her forehead.

"Night, mummy," Helen turned over and closed her eyes, she was asleep before Jean left the room.

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"Lucien," Jean pursed her lips, "it's no business of yours why Alice was in Melbourne." It was still gnawing at him, that he didn't know everything about his colleague.

"I know, but what if she is working on a case with Matthew and needs help?" he swirled his drink round.

"Then she will ask for help, but she is allowed to have friends outside of Ballarat."

"I didn't think she had any friends," he mused.

"Alice didn't have much fun growing up," Jean sighed, "from what I gather, but I should imagine she made some connections while she was at university, so stop worrying about her."

"Right, sorry."

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Alice folded the towels that had been on the line all day. Matthew hadn't worried when she said she would be spending the day in Melbourne, catching up with an old friend, just said he would see her that evening. Their free days didn't coincide too often, but that was ok, they had the evenings together and both agreed that working together and living together could be stifling, now they had taken their relationship to the next level. Nobody knew and they planned to keep it that way, to all intents and purposes they just shared a house, but more often than not they shared a bed, too.

As she had left that morning he had kissed her and whispered that if she was passing a chemist they were running low on precautions.

She had smiled and blushed but said she would do her best.

The last thing she wanted to do was to run into someone she knew in Ballarat, so seeing the Blake's on the train was unnerving for the private pathologist. It was true what she said about Mac but she had also gone to see her on a personal level.

Matthew breezed through the door, her car on the drive indicated she was back, there had been nothing of consequence that day for the force to deal with, a couple of driving offences and an argument in the street to break up, but it had been an easy day. He was looking forward to cooking the evening meal with Alice and having a whisky afterwards, followed by a little ... well who knew what!

"So, how was your friend?" he dried the plate she had washed.

"Very well, thank you," she smiled, "we had a good catch up and lunch together."

"Nice," he grinned.

"I bumped into the Blake's on the way back, at the station in Melbourne," she emptied the sink and dried her hands, "I think Lucien was trying to get out of me why I had gone to see Mac."

"He's a nosy one," Matthew put his cloth down and grabbed her by the waist, "nothing for him to know, was there?"

"No, but it wasn't something I wanted to deal with here," she pulled him to the couch, "something for us."

"What do we need?"

"Not to have to keep finding a chemist that doesn't know either of us," she blushed, "I asked Mac to fit me with a diaphragm, that way, if we are getting low on precautions ..."

"Wha'? Oh, yeah, right," he grinned, "see why you didn't want to go to your doctor here."

"So ..." she raised an eyebrow.

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The rest of the term break was spent helping Helen get used to her new life. The older girls helped keep her out of the surgery when Lucien was working and did some baking with her. Together with Jean they all went into town to get the groceries and pay bills. Slowly they introduced the little girl to people she met, their friends and possible school mates.

They invited Matthew and Alice over to dinner, something Alice was worried about.

"Look," Matthew helped her into her coat, "he's not going to ask you why you were seeing Mac over dinner, not in front of Helen. And anyway, you were visiting an old friend. Jean'll give him the death stare if he starts getting into dangerous territory."

"I suppose you're right," she sighed, "Jean is one of the few female friends I have, here or in Melbourne, and I would hate to lose that."

"Jean is never going to condemn either of us for sleeping together without being married."

"Who said sleep was involved," she smirked.

"Exactly," he kissed her cheek, "now, come on, or we'll be late."

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Matthew was right. Conversation centred around more mundane topics, those suitable to be held in front of children. Matthew told a few stories of when they were young, blackberry picking with Jean when they were ten, or picnics round the lake which were just a sandwich and a bottle of water. He told Helen how clever her mummy was when she was at school, and how kind she was to the smaller children.

Lucien found the stories just as interesting and suggested an afternoon walk and blackberry picking, at some point.

"I'll let you know when they are in season, Lucien dear," Jean smiled, "you can take the children."

"You'll come too, love," he laughed, "just a nice family day out."

"Can we mummy?" Helen looked into Jean's face, "please."

"Sounds fun, mum," Mary agreed, "and then we can use them for pies or jam, can't we?"

"Alright, then," Jean shrugged, "it would be nice."

Lucien suggested Matthew and Alice joined them but for that he did get the death stare. Jean didn't think it was the kind of afternoon Alice would enjoy.

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Jean had to see about getting Helen into school. She thought that given her experience of school perhaps mornings only for the first week then full time. She arranged to take Helen round the school when she dropped Li off the first day of term.

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Miss Wood was waiting at the door to meet Helen and speak to Jean.

"So lovely to meet you, Helen," she smiled down and the child, "and to have you join us here."

"Well, Miss Wood," Jean smiled in return, "the school has been very supportive to Mary and Li, for the most part," she thought of Miss Craven, "so it seemed a shame to look at another school for Helen. "Of course," she continued, "you know the doctor and I have one request ..."

"I quite understand, and I think we can avoid that issue," Miss Wood nodded to a teacher as they headed towards the infant classrooms, "at the moment that teacher is working further up the school and with two classes to each year there is no reason why Helen should have to be taught by that particular member of staff. If course I will keep you informed of the situation."

Jean and Lucien had talked over whether or not they wanted to put Helen where Miss Craven could have contact with her.

"The school is a good school, Lucien," Jean sighed, "but I don't want Esther Craven teaching Helen. As soon as she finds out that we have adopted her she is bound to visit some kind of misery on her."

"Quite, but, even though she has returned Li has nothing to do with her so perhaps we can trust Miss Wood to keep them apart," he had nodded, "I think we should give them the chance." And so it had been decided that Helen should follow the girls but if there was any hint of trouble they would pull her out.

"I'm surprised she wasn't sacked," Thomas had walked in on the conversation, "treating a child like that."

"Miss Wood has decided to give her a second chance," Jean sighed, "and Li's friend, Alice, says she always seems to be 'popping in' to the classroom. I think she is keeping her under observation."

"Good," Thomas huffed, "well, it's up to you ..."

"I like the school, Thomas," Jean folded her arms, "and she is only one teacher."

"She's right, dad," Lucien decided to step in, "we will keep a close eye and if necessary move Helen, but let's hope we don't have to do that, Li has the rest of this year there, before moving to the Grammar school. I don't think moving her now would be a good idea, and we would have to move them both."

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Helen found school unnerving and surprising. She was surprised that she was allowed to go home each day, to the sanctuary of Mycroft Avenue and the arms of Jean and Lucien. She had only ever known boarding school. It took her a while to make friends, worrying that other children would tease her about her freckles and red hair. Her teacher, a young woman with only two years experience, took pains to see she was seated near the front and always with another quiet pupil and encouraged her to see her if she had any worries.

Because there were also boys at the school, Helen found the rough and tumble of playtimes particularly difficult. She was often found standing at the edge of the playground, just watching the ball being kicked about or the skipping ropes being turned. She had tried hopscotch but kept wobbling so had given that up and didn't see the point of running unless you were trying to get somewhere, quickly. None of these things were encouraged at her other school in Brisbane, the exercise there was a walk or, when one was further up the school, lacrosse, hockey and tennis.

Nightmares returned. Not every night, and she couldn't tell Jean what they were about because as soon as she woke up she forgot. So Jean changed the bed, glad she had had the foresight to get a cover for the mattress, kissed her and said she wasn't to get upset, sheets could be washed.

At first Li had not wanted to intervene, wanted her to find her own feet, but gradually she could see that her little sister was uncomfortable at playtimes. This was probably why she had nightmares.

She wandered over to her one day and bent down to whisper in her ear. "Would you like to walk with me, Helen?"

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The girls in Li's class considered themselves too grown up to play ball games or skip so would wander around the playground and chat. They knew how close Li was to Mary and had seen her chewing her lip as she watched the lonely little girl that had come into her family. It was their idea she should go and suggest she walk her round the play area.

"She's so bright at home, always asking questions and making us laugh," Li sighed, "she loves to bake with mama and us and is always giggling when the flour gets in our hair, or over our clothes. Then, as soon as she gets here she goes all quiet and withdrawn."

"Have you said anything, to your parents?" Alice asked, "they should know."

"I asked Helen if she would like me to talk to them, but she said she had to go to school or she wouldn't be as clever as papa," Li shrugged, "I don't know what to do, but I hate seeing her like this."

"What school did she go to before?"

"A boarding school, and it wasn't very pleasant," Li took a deep breath, "I'm going to take her for a walk round the playground, I'll talk to mama tonight, Helen goes to bed first."

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Helen slipped her hand into Li's and looked up at her with a small smile.

"So, how's it going?" Li asked quietly.

Helen shrugged, she didn't quite know how to answer, the truth was all the noise, children running around and shouting unnerved her. She wasn't used to it. They weren't allowed to make all that noise at her last school or run around and she was afraid of being knocked over. It had happened, before, on purpose by the girls who teased her - pushed over or knocked into a prickly plant in the garden - she would prefer to sit in the library and look at books at playtime, but she was told she needed the fresh air. A group of boys ran past, shouting, Li felt Helen flinch.

"Bit loud, aren't they?" Li gave a little laugh, "boys," she tossed her head and rolled her eyes.

"Why do they run around like that?" Helen's voice was barely audible over the general hubbub.

"It's playtime, Helen, time to let off some steam, stretch the legs and clear the head," Li explained, "time to have fun."

The boys ran past again, and this time, quite by accident one of them bumped into her, momentarily unbalancing her. Li kept her on her feet but saw her biting her lip against tears.

"Hey, Helen, you're ok," she squatted down in front of her, "he just wasn't looking where he was going. It was an accident."

"They used to push me over at the other school," Helen sniffed, "into the scratchy bushes."

"I see," light began to dawn, Helen's memories weren't good ones, of playtimes or free time outside.

"Is everything alright, Li?" Miss Wood had seen her take Helen by the hand and walk her round the playground.

"Helen's not greatly enamoured by the noise and running about, Miss Wood," Li stood up and smiled, "she's not used to it. I don't think playtimes were much fun at her other school."

"I see, but we can't have you sitting inside all day, Helen, dear," she stroked the auburn curls, "that's not what you want, is it?"

"I want to stay in the library, with the books," Helen whispered.

"Hm," Miss Wood thought for a moment, "how about you have a book outside? You could have a chair in the shade and sit and read, that way you would get some fresh air as well."

"I could come and get you, at the beginning of play time, if you like," Li smiled, this seemed like it might be the answer, until she got used to the situation, "help you choose a book and carry a chair for you."

Helen nodded.

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So Li started fetching Helen from her classroom each break time, helped her choose a book and set her in the shade to read, or look at the pictures, which given her age was more likely. She did, however, speak to Jean and Lucien one evening.

"I would have said something sooner," she admitted, "but I hoped she was just finding her feet."

Jean's hand flew to her mouth, Helen always came out of school with a big grin on her face, but now, she thought, that was just the relief that she was there to take her home.

"What do we do? I thought everything was ok. She chatters on about her lessons." she gulped, "I can't let her retreat from the world."

"I doubt she is retreating from the world, Jean," Lucien put his arm around her, "it's just so foreign to her, the joy the children feel at being allowed out of the confines of the classroom."

"But she's so joyous here."

"Where she feels safe, loved and we are a small group. Mary, Sylvia and Li don't run around like five year olds, they play games with her, but don't run past her and threaten to knock her over," he squeezed her shoulder, "don't fret just yet, love," he smiled, "let her get used to it, with Li's help," he looked at his daughter who nodded, "reading in the shade."

"Alice said she'd help too, papa," Li smiled, "she has a younger cousin who is afraid of her own shadow."

"Lovely," he smiled, "why don't you take one of the picnic rugs, though," he looked at Jean, "then if she's sitting on the ground perhaps another quiet child might join her."

"Help her make friends," Jean agreed, "that might work."

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"What made you think of the blanket, Lucien?" she wriggled close to him as they lay in bed that night, "I wish she had said something."

"You heard Li, she thinks that if she doesn't go to school she won't be clever, and, as for the blanket, well, I had thought we would have a picnic ourselves, sometime." He gave her a squeeze, "we can't expect her just to slip into her new life like a replacement white plate, in a stack of older white plates. She has to get used to us, the school, her new bedroom, and the fact that you won't punish her for wetting the bed."

"Sheets wash, Lucien," she huffed, "so do pyjamas, I could care less about that, it's her that matters. If she can't settle in school perhaps we should engage a tutor, for home."

"That won't cure the problem, Jean," he turned on his side to look at her, "that will just make her reclusive. No, let her continue going to school, give her time. Li will keep an eye on her and Miss Wood will keep us informed. Perhaps you could invite one child to tea, one she has formed a friendship with?"

"Perhaps, on her birthday? Mary and Li never bother about parties these days, but when they were little they liked having a friend or two over for tea and cakes."

"Excellent idea," he grinned, "now, wife, I have an idea of my own ..."


	21. Chapter 21

"Mrs Blake?" another mother waiting to pick up her child, advanced, hand outstretched, "Elspeth Jackson," she finished.

"Oh, hello," Jean shook the hand, "pleased to meet you."

"And I you," Mrs Jackson nodded, "my daughter, Netta, says she has become friends with your young one, Helen, is it?"

"Yes, that's right, don't they sit together in class?" Helen had mentioned it one day, that she thought she had a friend. Jean had hoped things were looking up and that she was at last beginning to settle down.

"They do, Netta's a quiet one, she says Helen is too, like their books, apparently."

"Helen is rather shy," Jean confirmed.

"Well, Netta was wondering, if Helen would like to come to tea, one day," Mrs Jackson went on, "no real reason ..."

"That's kind of you," Jean relaxed a little, "I will see what Helen thinks, and we can arrange a date."

"Lovely," she smiled again, "ah, here they come," she looked over the playground, "I hope they've had a good day."

"So do I," Jean smiled and waved at Helen who waved back and trotted over, with Netta.

"Netta shared my reading blanket, today, Mummy," Helen slipped her hand into Jean's.

"That's lovely, sweetie," Jean stroked her auburn curls and pushed the ribbon back into place, "what book did you look at today?"

"A picture book, of animals," Helen grinned, "there were koalas in it."

"I see," her mother smiled, "you and your koalas."

Helen giggled.

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"Remember," Jean bent down to Helen, "Mrs Jackson is picking you up, after school."

"Ok, Mummy," she whispered, "but you'll pick me up after tea?"

"Of course I will, darling, about half past five," Jean reassured her. "Now, you have a good day, and I'll see you later." She kissed her head and watched her head off to class.

Jean had wondered about the wisdom of allowing Helen to go to tea with Netta. Mrs Jackson was far too effusive, in her mind, since they had met a week ago. Netta, she agreed, was a sweet child, quiet and unassuming, but her mother seemed to be trying to get too much of Jean's past out of her. Had she always lived in Ballarat? How did she meet her husband? Who did she know? Which was the best butcher's and greengrocer's?

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She stood on the doorstep of the Jackson's house. It was a perfectly respectable house, neat and tidy on the outside, a small car parked on the drive next to a larger, more expensive one. Once upon a time that would be imposing, but now, Thomas had taught, and Lucien was teaching her that she was as good, if not better than most in town. She had nothing to be ashamed of. She knocked and waited, hoping Helen had had a nice time.

"Yes?" a tall, imposing man answered the door.

"Mrs Blake, I've come to collect Helen," she smiled, "Mr Jackson?"

He harrumphed and stood aside to allow her entry.

Jean stepped in and looked around the hallway. Clean and bright, not a speck of dust, then she chided herself for that, judging another's housekeeping. She was distracted by a shout:

"Mummy!" and Helen ran in to her arms.

"Hello sweetheart " she kissed her "have you had a good time?"

Helen flashed her a look, but nodded.

"What do you say, to Mrs Jackson?"

"Thank you for having me," she smiled.

"You're welcome, Helen," Mrs Jackson nodded, "thank you for coming."

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Helen did at least wait until they were in the car before she dropped her stiffened shoulders.

"Mummy, what's for dinner?"

"You've just had tea," Jean laughed, "still hungry?"

"It wasn't very nice," she whispered, as if Mrs Jackson could still hear her, and opened the napkin she had concealed in her pocket. In it was a rather dry ham sandwich and a small piece of plain cake, each of which had a bite taken out of it.

"Oh, I see," Jean nodded, "well I have a rabbit stew in the oven and potatoes and vegetables. What do you say to that?"

"Yum," Helen grinned.

"Did Netta eat her tea?"

"Yes, but quickly," she nodded, "she had a school dinner so I suppose she wasn't too hungry."

Jean always made Helen a packed lunch; a sandwich and piece of fruit, a biscuit or a piece of cake and it was enough to see the child through until her snack after school and dinner with the family. Helen had said, right from the start, that she would like it very much if mummy would make her a packed lunch, please. Jean supposed her cooking was better than the boarding school food she was used to and had been happy to wrap her up a sandwich each day. She didn't know quite what to say so changed the subject to that of the day's activities.

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"Well, that's interesting," Lucien hummed later, when Jean told him of Helen's experience out to tea, "what are the parents like?"

"She's rather forward," Jean hummed, "can't say much about him, a lot older than her, rather gruff? condescending. I definitely felt he looked down on me."

"The nerve," Lucien huffed and kissed the top of her head, "doesn't do to upset the wife of the Police Surgeon, he knows people." He winked.

"Don't be silly, Lucien," she pushed him affectionately, "I got the feeling he wasn't happy to see me, or that Netta had a friend over."

"Mrs Jackson?"

"Oh heavens, that woman," Jean rolled her eyes, "so ... er ... well, she's nosy, always asking questions about Ballarat, the people, who do I know? Someone's told her about Mary and Li and now she's fishing."

"Neither of us have anything to be ashamed of, love," he pulled her close, "she's new to the area, I suppose, not as new as Helen, but anyone who asked questions like that ..."

"Do you think Matthew could ask around?" she asked shyly, "I know there's no crime to be investigated, but ..."

"Ask him, or I will, which ever of us sees him first, now ..."

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Jean suggested to Helen that she might like to invite Netta for tea, on her birthday. She could choose what they ate.

"Can we all eat together, Mummy, like we usually do?" Helen tipped her head to one side, "and can it be roast chicken?"

Jean laughed and agreed, it would be easier to just add Netta to the numbers, rather than do two separate meals. She could easily add a special birthday cake to the menu, for dessert.

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Netta skipped happily beside Jean and Helen, she rarely got asked to tea with anyone and when she did all her father did was question her about the family and the house. He would then decide if she was to associate with them again. She had lost friends at her first school that way, she didn't want to lose Helen's friendship.

"Uncle Matthew and Dr Harvey are joining us, Helen, if you don't mind, that is," Jean pushed the door open.

"I like Uncle Matthew, he's funny," Helen dropped her bag on the hall floor.

"Ahem," Jean coughed, "Helen we don't drop our bags, do we, hang it up, please. Netta, you can hang yours up next to Helen's."

"Sorry, Mummy," Helen smiled, "and Dr Harvey tells good stories."

Jean raised her eyebrows at that, Alice would tell stories of the Greek and Roman heroes, learnt when she studied Classics at university. It had happened quite by accident when conversation had turned to Zeus during a thunderstorm. Helen had been unnerved at the noise and Alice had just thrown in the explanation Zeus and his thunderbolts. Ever since then Helen had asked for other stories about the gods.

She sent the girls into the living room to play with Helen's toys while she prepared a light snack to tide them over until dinner time.

She could hear them giggling as she pottered around the kitchen, putting the finishing touches to the dinner, wondering how much Netta would eat. Helen had a good appetite and had filled out a little since she came to live with them, Netta didn't look underfed but what Helen had told her about the tea had preyed on her mind.

Alice and Matthew arrived with a small gift for the birthday girl who thanked them with a big smile and Lucien came through from the surgery having finished for the day. He was introduced to Netta and kissed Helen, asking about her day.

"It was fine, daddy," she grinned, "Miss Roberts read us a new story about pirates and we are going to try and write our own stories."

"I look forward to reading yours, then," he grinned, "hope there's a parrot who says 'pieces of eight'."

"Daddy, you are silly," Helen laughed.

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Jean called everyone to the table and asked Lucien to carve. Netta's eyes were wide at the sight of roast chicken, potatoes and vegetables.

"Mrs Blake!" she gasped, "we only have roast chicken on Sunday's."

"Oh, well, with the doctor working all day and Helen only having a sandwich for lunch we like a proper meal and a chat about the day." Jean smiled, "help yourself to vegetables."

"Thank you," Netta's eyes grew wider, she was used to having her food presented to her on the plate, and not to ask for more.

The conversation was kept to an appropriate level for young children. Mary told about her day at the Grammar school and said that her art class were going to the gallery later in the week.

"We have to pick a painting and study it," she took an extra potato, "talk about the style, use of colour and light and compare it to a totally different painting."

"Anything in mind?" Lucien wondered. He hadn't looked in the gallery since his return.

"Not sure, possibly a classical piece and a more modern one," she swallowed, "or two of similar subjects but different artists. I will see what's on show at the moment."

"And you, Li," Lucien turned to his daughter, "anything interesting happening for you?"

"A mathematics test at the end of the week," she pouted, "nothing as much fun as a trip round the gallery."

"Perhaps you and I could go one day," he smiled.

"Jean suggested once, that we see if they would like one of your mother's paintings, Lucien," Thomas grinned remembering a conversation so long ago, in another life it seemed to him.

"What about the one of Miss Clasby," Mary suggested, "if Miss Clasby doesn't mind?"

Lucien roared with laughter and said he might suggest it at her next appointment.

As the plates were cleared Jean took a cake from the side, decorated with candles and pink icing.

"I thought we'd have cake for dessert today, if nobody minds," she grinned, "now, Lucien would you light the candles."

Helen's eyes nearly fell from her head, so surprised was she. Nobody, not even her other mother had ever made a cake just for her. She jumped up and flung her arms round Jean.

"Oh Mummy, it's beautiful, thank you," she hugged hard.

"Well, the birthday girl should have a birthday cake, shouldn't she?" Jean bent down and wrapped her arms round her, "now, when Daddy has lit the candles you need to blow them out and make a wish."

"But," Thomas added, "you must keep it a secret, if you want it to come true."

"Ok," Helen breathed.

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There was a round of applause and a chorus of 'For she's a jolly good fellow', and the cake was cut and eaten.

Helen and Netta were shooed back into the living room while the table was cleared and to wait for Mrs Jackson to collect her daughter.

She arrived later than planned and quite flustered, worried that Netta might think she had been abandoned.

"She hasn't said anything," Jean smiled, "come in, they're in the living room." She noticed Mrs Jackson was rather more heavily made up than usual, strange for the that time of day, unless she and her husband were going out for the evening.

"Hello, Mummy," Netta stood up, "is it time to go?"

"Yes, dear, Daddy's waiting in the car," she seemed anxious to get out, "get your things, we mustn't keep him."

"Thank you for having me, Mrs Blake, it was lovely," Netta turned to Jean and smiled, "see you tomorrow, Helen."

"You're welcome, Netta, I'm glad you enjoyed yourself."

"I do hope she wasn't any trouble," Mrs Jackson worried as they walked up the hall.

"None at all, a pleasure to have her," Jean assured her.

"Indeed," Lucien came up behind them, "nice to meet Helen's friends," he smiled.

"Oh, doctor," she gasped, surprised, "yes, well, we must go ..." she took Netta's hand.

Jean and Lucien watched them hurry down the drive then looked at each other, puzzled.

"Strange," Jean murmured, "she's always happy to chat at the school gate, now it's as if she can't wait to get away."

"Lot of make up," he observed.

She drew her brows together.

"A lot more than you wear, darling," he added, "and she doesn't look like she needs it, it's almost a mask."

"Covering up something?" Jean mused, closing the door.

He hummed in thought.

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Jean thought no more about the make-up and life went on as usual. Lucien had a case to deal with, just out of Ballarat. A new family had moved into a remote house and decided to do some work in the garden - quite a lot of work, as it happened.

Digging down to lay some hard standing for a new shed the man, one Mr Jonas Slattery, dug up a bone. Not a chicken bone that could have been thrown away after a meal, or a bone that could belong to a dog, no this was a human arm bone - it couldn't be anything else - it was attached to a shoulder, which was attached to the upper spine that was attached to a skull. Mr Slattery went into the house and phoned the police.

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"Has anyone else seen this," Matthew scratched his head, "do you live alone?"

"Wife's shopping," Mr Slattery grunted, "it's just the two of us. Thought it was a good place to have the grandchildren over, big garden, lots of space for them."

"Doc?" Matthew called over to Lucien who was squatting down flicking bits of soil and garden detritus away from the skeleton.

"Been here a while, Inspector," he didn't turn his head, "I'll know better when I get it back to the morgue, but first thoughts are beaten to death, healed and unhealed fractures on the skull."

"Right," the Inspector dragged the word out, "best get it down there."

"We need to take it with some of the soil around it, Matthew," Lucien stood up, tarps'd be good to lift it. Dig under and slide them through."

"Leave you to it, then," Matthew turned on his heel and went to start piecing the case together. First he had to go to the land registry and see who had lived in the house over the past several years, judging by the state of the body.

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It took what seemed like, forever. Lucien and Alice spent more than two days cleaning and examining the skeleton of the woman - they had told Matthew how they knew the gender and how she died.

"Multiple beatings, Matthew," Lucien set the file on his desk. "This woman was subject to many beatings, breaks to her bones that I don't think were seen to by a medic. The break to her forearm was set, but inexpertly, the ribs are slightly out of line and the skull - well I'm surprised she lived through the first batch of beatings."

"So, what killed her?"

"This blow to the back of the head, for a guess, the most recent and unhealed," Blake sighed, "I would guess, she was felled by a strong blow to the head, with a rock or heavy implement, then suffocated in the dirt - she would have fallen forward and her face would have been buried in the soil. There were soil particles in her teeth, her mouth and her eye sockets."

"Murder, then?" Matthew grumbled.

"'Fraid so," Lucien admitted, "anything from five to ten years ago."

"Bugger."

While Lucien and Alice had been examining the body Matthew and Bill Hobart and one or two of the other constables were digging through the list of owners of the property over the years. Then they matched that information to the births, marriages and deaths and missing persons for the timeline Lucien had indicated.

The officers started locating and interviewing all the previous occupants of the house, striking them off their list as they went. All family members were accounted for, nobody, so far, was missing.

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"How're we doin'?" Matthew grunted tiredly.

"Two more left, Boss," Bill passed the files over, "Jackson and Miller."

"Right, tomorrow I'll take Jackson and you take Miller," he split the two files and gave one to Bill.

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Matthew knocked on the door, shoulders slumped. He had arranged to meet Alice at the Blake's house and have dinner before going home. So far a paupers funeral had been considered for the woman but nobody liked the idea, she had a name, once.

"Hello, Matthew," Jean greeted him with a smile, "come in, dinner's just about ready."

"You waited for me? You didn't have to do that, Jean," he took his cap off and stepped inside, grateful, however, that they had waited.

"Rude to start before the visitor," she closed the door. "Alice is telling Helen another myth."

"Y'know, Jean," Matthew whispered, "Alice has told be some of her background and children don't figure as something she is comfortable with, so why Helen?"

"She accepts people for who they are, like Mary and Li," Jean told him, "she doesn't make Alice feel awkward."

"Right," he sighed.

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Once dinner was over and Helen had been put to bed Matthew, Alice, Lucien and Jean felt they could discuss the case. Mary and Li headed up to their bedroom, with Sylvia, to do some homework and read. They weren't particularly interested in the gruesome parts of the case, but would often be told the result of the investigation.

"So, Matthew," Lucien handed him a glass of whisky, "how goes the door to door?"

"Well, Bill's done the Miller's, can't see him having anything to do with it, scrawny little chap and his wife would make mincemeat of him," he swallowed, "there are no records of anyone going missing and from what we can glean they did very little in the garden. It leaves us with only one, Obadiah Jackson."

"And ...?"

"Not in, the wife said he would be in in the evening, but he was out at his office. She wasn't too happy about giving his office address, seemed nervous about it - made us stand on newspaper in the hall," he huffed, "place was spotless."

"Jackson?" Jean turned, "not Elspeth Jackson?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Her daughter is Netta, Helen's friend. Sorry, I didn't know her husband was called 'Obadiah'. He's a gruff character," she passed on her assessment of Mr Jackson from her one meeting, the day she had collected Helen. "I noticed the house was spick and span, too," she blushed. "You know," she pursed her lips, "when she picked Netta up from here on Helen's birthday, she could hardly get away fast enough, and she was wearing an awful lot of makeup; even Lucien noticed."

"Didn't want to keep her husband waiting, or that's what she said," Lucien agreed. "Did you get to see him?"

"In a meeting this morning," Mathew huffed, "made an appointment to see him this afternoon but strangely he was out of town. We're going to try the house tomorrow morning, before he leaves for work, at least we're going to try."

"Didn't you try tonight?" Alice raised her eyebrow.

"Nobody home, at all," Matthew grunted. "I think he's avoiding us. There was a car on the drive, a Jag, so either they were out for a walk or they were hiding in the house. With a child there ..."

"You didn't want to put her in danger," Jean murmured.

"No."

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"Lucien," Jean turned over to lie on her side and look at Lucien, "I've been thinking ..."

"Yes, about ...?"

"The Jacksons. You know how you noticed the makeup and we thought maybe she was hiding something. You said it looked like a mask."

"Yes, I think I see where you're going with this, you think she was hiding the evidence of a beating."

"I can't think of anything else. She's usually so well made up, and perfectly dressed."

"So, you're thinking he beats her, probably beat another wife and buried her in the garden and made another life for himself?" He pulled her close, "but why come back to almost the scene of the crime?"

"He got away with it last time," she snuggled against his warm chest, "so why not rub the police's noses in it?"

"You stay away, d'ye hear," he tightened his hold on her, "no more tea there for Helen until this is sorted out. Netta can come here, but you'll have to make excuses for Helen not going there."

"Right, yes, of course."

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Matthew and Bill stood outside the front of the Jackson house early the following morning and knocked ... and knocked and called:

"Police! Open up!"

Nothing.

No feet running, no voices whispering no doors closing.

"Bloody hell!" Matthew cursed, "flown the coop."

Bill pushed the door, it swung open, "Boss?"

Tentatively, holding their breath and praying they didn't need to use force, they entered the hallway.

"Hello?" Bill called, "anybody home?"

Silence.

Matthew walked a little further down the hall, passed a vase tipped on its side on the table. Water had run out of it and formed a small, drying pool on the immaculately polished floor. Further in they found the kitchen, a chair turned over and a cup smashed next to it.

"Boss," Bill stood looking in the sink, "over here."

Matthew joined him and they both looked at a bloody tea towel lying there.

"Right!" Matthew went to the phone in the hall, "I'm calling in the doc, this looks like he's done a runner, Jag's gone, but I'm more concerned about the wife and daughter." He dialled Blake's number first and grunted his instructions to get up to the house, then asked for the number of the school Helen attended. That was his next call, to find out if Netta was at school that day.

She wasn't, and there had been no message to say why, they assumed she had been taken ill. He put the phone down and scowled. It rang and he absentmindedly picked it up.

"Lawson."

On the other end of the line Jean was relieved he had picked up.

"Matthew, how many cars are on the drive?"

"What?"

"Mrs Jackson has her own little car, an MG I think, has he taken the Jaguar?" she asked.

"Bill," Lawson looked at his colleague, "check the garage, is there a car in there?"

Bill ran outside and looked about. The garage was padlocked shut. He took his police baton and brought it down on the padlock, the baton came off worst and the lock stayed put. He looked around for a heavy rock and found one in the flower border. He weighed it in his hand then hit the lock as hard as he could. It took a couple of blows but the lock gave way and he pulled the doors open. Inside was Mrs Jackson's small car but there was no sign of Elspeth, Netta or Obadiah.

"MG in the garage, Boss!" Bill called back, then wandered round the small vehicle. It was clean, polished, the tyres new, never driven, it seemed to Bill. He leant on the front and it moved backwards. "Hello," he muttered, "brake's not on."

He found the car was not locked and opened the driver's door to pull on the handbrake. The car was in showroom condition. Now, why did a man who appeared to beat his wife; at least that was their thinking at this time; provide her with a rather smart little car like this? He checked the usual hiding places for a key and found it, in the glove compartment. Inserting it into the ignition he turned it - nothing, not a murmur, just a click as the key went round. So, if it had been parked on the drive the day Mrs Blake had been round to collect Helen, then it must have been pushed into the garage. He pulled the bonnet release catch and got out to inspect the engine. Bill was good with cars, it was his little hobby, having no family or lady friend, it kept him busy off duty. He lifted the bonnet lid and gasped. The engine was clean. "This car has never run," he mumbled, and leant in to check leads, spark plugs ... he took so much time finding the car that Matthew came out of the house to find him.

"Hobart? What's going on?" he peered into the garage to find Bill half in the engine compartment.

"This car, Boss," Bill stood up, "it's never been run, clean as a whistle, no charge in the battery, from what I can see, but otherwise, well, it's a beaut. Blake should get one for Jean."

"Nice motor, I grant you, but ..."

"... why give a wife he beats a car like this?"

"Show, to make it look like he is a good provider?" Matthew pushed his cap back and scratched his head. "Well, while you've been examining the evidence I've put out a call for anyone whose seen a black Jag heading out of Ballarat and sent the troops out on the roads to the main towns. There's no one in the house, I've checked the cellar and there's nothing there, either."

"Right, don't look good."

"No it doesn't.

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The evening before Jackson had pushed his wife and daughter into the cellar and told them to be quiet - or else. Elspeth held Netta close, ignoring the pain from her bruised and battered face. She had a plan, if she could keep him from killing them for the next few hours. The pounding on the front door finally ceased and it went eerily quiet. Netta clung to her, silent tears running down her face and soaking her mother's blouse. She stiffened as her father's heavy footsteps came down the cellar steps and winced as he dragged her up.

"Up the stairs, now!" he hissed, using his other hand to drag Elspeth onto her feet. He pushed them up the stairs and along the hall, knocking a vase of flowers over on the way. Outside he shoved them into the back seat of his car and reversed down the drive onto the road. Then he turned it to face out of the town and sped off.

Elspeth knew better than to question his actions, or ask where they were going. This was the third time they had fled their home, and if she had her way it would be the last. She had cultivated Jean Blake's friendship, encouraged Netta to be friends with Helen, seeing them as an island she could cling onto after the ship had gone down. Obadiah had beat her and told her, in rather colourful language, just what he thought of her when he arrived home at the end of the day. He knew she would have given the police his office address and he also knew there were inquiries made into the discovery of a skeleton. He had to get out of Ballarat, what he was to do with his wife and child he would work out later.

He pulled up at an anonymous little hotel in a small town. little more than a hamlet. Inside he rented a room which had a double bed and a couch, which would do for Netta.

'Poor Netta,' her mother thought, 'I've tried so hard to protect you from this, I am so sorry.' She daren't speak out loud, just prayed her husband would drink himself into a stupor, as he did so often. At least on those nights she wouldn't have to suffer his 'attentions'.

He locked the door and took off his jacket and threw the car keys onto the bedside cabinet, before ringing down for a bottle of whisky. Inwardly Elspeth cheered and took herself to the couch still holding Netta tight. The child had sobbed herself to sleep, clinging to her mother's torn blouse. She remained silent, it was her best defence, and watched as he grabbed the bottle off the concierge, slammed to door shut and locked it again. Elspeth watched him put the key in the bedside drawer, noticing it squeaked as it slid in and out. He glared over at her and growled, "don't get any ideas." She cowered obediently into the couch and waited.

He savoured the first two or three glasses of the spirit, then just sloshed it into the glass and swallowed in large mouthfuls. He'd not eaten and it would have a quicker effect on an empty stomach. Obadiah drank, but he shouldn't, he couldn't hold it, not really.

She must have dozed off because she woke to the empty bottle falling to the floor and Obadiah snoring. She knew, from past experience, that he was nearly unconscious and now was her best chance.

She nudged Netta gently, waking her but imploring her to stay silent. They both stood, legs sore from the cramped position, but still strong enough to hold them upright. Pushing the child behind her and towards the door she grabbed a cushion from the couch and held it against the drawer to, hopefully, deaden the squeak. It did, enough not to disturb the sleeper in the bed. She passed the car key to Netta, still holding her finger over her lips to show she should stay silent. She held the cushion over the lock and turned the key, the muffled click had Jackson turn over and grumble and snort. They both held their breath, but the door was now unlocked. Gingerly Elspeth pulled it open enough for them to slide out and close it silently behind them. She locked it, again with the cushion and, taking Netta by the hand, they tiptoed fast down the corridor and the stairs. The entrance hall, such as it was, was empty so they stole out into the night and towards the car.

"Mummy?" Netta whispered as she was shepherded into the passenger seat.

"No more, darling," Elspeth slid into the driver's side, "he won't find us."

"How?"

With a last look at the hotel, and committing the name to memory, Elspeth started the engine and drove away, back towards Ballarat. She knew she could just drive until the tank emptied, but she needed him to be caught. She too had seen and heard the reports of the skeleton and something about his manner told her he had something to do with it. She didn't drive fast, her head hurt, probably mild concussion, she thought, and her vision went blurry from time to time. She had to get to safety and the one place she knew she would be safe was with the woman whose friendship she had hopefully cultivated enough. Even so, the woman had friends in the police force and that was enough.

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A police car pulled across the road in front of the jaguar. Elspeth narrowly missed hitting it, swerving and ending up in a ditch. She heaved a sigh of relief and let a constable lift her daughter out of the car and another help her out.

"Thank goodness," she murmured, then her world went black as shouts went up for an ambulance and her daughter called for her.

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Lucien grabbed the receiver from its cradle and barked down the line.

"Right, I'll be right there," he ran his hands over his head and called for Jean.

"Elspeth and Netta have been found," he held her arms, "Mrs Jackson's not good, looks like he gave her quite a beating, Netta has a bump to her forehead, probably from the car ending up in a ditch, she'll be ok, I hope. I'm going down to the hospital, I'll ring you later." He kissed her forehead and dashed off.

Jean slumped into a chair. Helen would beg for Netta to come and stay with them and really she couldn't take that, not now.

"Jean?" Thomas crept into the kitchen, "are you alright?"

She had jumped at her name but relaxed and smiled a little smile.

"Mrs Jackson and her daughter have been found, alive," she added quickly. "Lucien has gone to the hospital to see how they are. Apparently he gave his wife quite a beating."

"That's not all, is it?" he sat beside her and took her hand. "I've known you all your life, Jean, something's bothering you."

"It's nothing," she tried to brush it off.

"And you expect me to believe you?" he raised his eyebrows, "my heart may be a bit suspect, but the brain still works," he grinned.

"Helen," she sighed, "when she hears that Netta is in hospital she will want her to come and stay, and her mother ... after all, we took her in."

"You can't take in every stray," he soothed.

"It's just, well ...Thomas," she turned to him, "don't say anything to Lucien, not yet, but ..." she took a deep breath, "I think I might be pregnant."

"Really?" his eyes widened. "Are you sure?"

"As I can be at the moment," she nodded, "of course a blood test would confirm it, or not."

"Come into the surgery, dear child," he stood up and held out his hand, "let me do it, then if it is positive you can tell Lucien, until then," he tapped the side of his nose, "mum's the word."

She grinned and followed him into the surgery.

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Lucien studied the notes on Elspeth Jackson. Matthew and Bill had gone to the hotel she had named when she regained consciousness. She had a fracture over her eye and severe bruising to the jaw and cheeks. Some teeth had come loose, but that was for a dentist to deal with. In time she would be fine, physically, mentally he wondered. She had told how he had related a story of his wife, his other wife, dying suddenly, and he had wooed her gently and as a gentleman. It was only when they married that the other side of him had come out. The house had to be pristine, she wasn't allowed to have visitors, nor was the child when she came along. He kept her short of money, scrutinised the receipt for her shopping and, as Matthew had surmised, the MG was for show. She was at his beck and call and if ever she did anything wrong or not to his exacting standards he would beat her and tell her it was her own stupid fault. In time she had come to believe it. It was only when Netta had met Helen and told her all about the kind doctor and his wife who had rescued her from the school in Brisbane and taken her in as their own that she understood none of it was her fault; that men could be kind and gentle. When she had invited Helen for tea it had been with the sole aim of planning her escape. When she had met Jean in the school grounds she had seen someone who was loved, and Helen was nurtured. Letting Netta go for tea on Helen's birthday had all been part of the plan, she would tell her how things went in a 'normal' household. Lucien had smiled at this, but it was 'normal' for him. The only thing was she didn't know how to finalise her plan. If it wasn't for Mr Slattery digging in his garden she might still be trying to sort that out.

"Tell him thank you, will you?" she mumbled at Lucien, the painkillers and brutal beating having an effect on her speech.

He smiled and decided he would leave that bit out of the end of the case. "I want Netta to stay in hospital today and overnight," he put the charts on the end of the bed, "nothing to worry about, I just think she would be happier near you."

"Thank you, Dr Blake," she drifted into sleep and he left her there. It had crossed his mind that Netta could stay with them but, somehow, for once he thought he had better speak to Jean first, the house was getting rather full, and he was surrounded by women!

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Elspeth Jackson was in hospital for over a week, her statement was taken by Matthew, sensitively over that time. Obadiah had been found, still in a drunken stupor in the bedroom she had locked him in and taken in handcuffs to the police cells in Ballarat. Once he had sobered up he was questioned repeatedly until he finally gave in. He had beaten his first two wives to death when they hadn't lived up to his expectations. Stupid women he snarled, deserved it, and then his current wife had presented him with a daughter, of all things, and no matter how he had tried she had not fallen pregnant again to give him the son he believed was his due. Lucien was of the opinion that he probably caused her to lose babies too early for her to know, with his beatings. Elspeth had said as much, that she had hidden any sickness in the mornings, that she had missed often then bled painfully and heavily after a beating ...

"Sometimes, doctor," she had whispered, "I wonder if he didn't kill the sons he wanted. I was too frightened to tell him I thought I may have caught, so kept it quiet, then, perhaps it was too late, each time ..." she had shrugged, "perhaps it was for the best."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxHelen wondered why Netta wasn't at school so Jean just told her she had not been well and Mrs Jackson didn't want her to pass it on to any of the other children, it was easiest that way. When Netta finally returned to school, near Christmas, she said little about her absence, just that she had hurt her head and Mummy wanted to keep her safe.

Elspeth Jackson had decided to stay in Ballarat, for her daughter's sake. Stability, she called it. She had found a little place she could afford to rent, a little job in a shop to tide her over after Obadiah had been convicted of murder, failure to order a proper burial and assault, and she found peace. She still saw Jean at school and the two girls remained friends, having tea occasionally, but not too often. She had thanked Jean for her kindness and apologised for her subterfuge.

"No worries, Elspeth," Jean had smiled, "come and have a cuppa when you feel the need."

Jean's suspicions about her pregnancy had been confirmed and Lucien was beside himself with joy. When they told the girls they had danced round the living room and Mary had voiced what everybody thought.

"Perhaps a boy this time, mum," she hugged Jean, "after all, dad and grandpa will be overrun with women if not."

They had all laughed at that and Jean had stroked her still flat stomach, smiling at the thought of a mini Lucien.


	22. Chapter 22

**Epilogue:**

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Lucien's gentleness towards Jean had always been a stark contrast to that of Christopher's bullying, but now he was even more gentle. At first she found it a little stifling but gradually came to understand and accept his tenderness. He would plump a cushion behind her on the couch, make her tea when he thought she wasn't taking a rest, lift anything that had any weight to it, help her make the beds and most of all his lovemaking was the most tender and sweet she could imagine. He still sent her to the outer reaches of the universe, had her see stars but every touch, every caress and every kiss was all for her. It was like being wrapped in a warm cloud of love, and she revelled in it.

Of course, when he was out of the house she was her usual busy self, vacuuming and dusting, seeing to meals and sewing, shopping and caring for the children. The older girls were as helpful as ever and they would give Helen little tasks to do, like setting the table or carrying things about the house, all to make her feel included in the preparations for the new baby.

As Christmas came and went and her shape slowly changed people began to notice in the street and in the shops. She would be stopped and congratulated when she confirmed she was indeed expecting Lucien's baby. There was the odd one who huffed but she just smiled sweetly to herself, she would be married to the doctor fourteen months before Baby Blake put in an appearance, nobody could now accuse her of having to get married. Susan Tyneman gave her a weak smile, while Michael kissed her cheek and wished her the best of times.

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"It was good enough for you and Mary," Jean huffed as she told him where she wanted the cot putting, "I don't mind a new bassinet for our room, but we don't need a new cot or pram."

"They're a bit old fashioned, love," he panted, "don't you want something a bit more modern?"

"Why?" she folded her arms, "there's nothing wrong with that, the mattress is new, or it was when Mary was born, Li was fine in it when you sent her here ..."

Lucien could see it was a battle he wasn't going to win and Thomas grinned from the doorway.

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When she had begun to feel the movements of the child she carried she had let Lucien hold his hand over her belly and he waited, albeit not very patiently. She laughed and said it would seem her baby was going to be trouble. The only person the baby kicked on demand for was Helen. She would cuddle up next to Jean on the couch and whisper to the bump, telling the baby how she was looking forward to meeting him, and that he was a lucky baby to have Jean for a mummy and Lucien for a daddy.

"And of course," she murmured, "there's gran'pa, too." She was rewarded with a kick to her hand and she smiled.

One thing that did surprise her was the number of times Alice was 'just passing'. It didn't bother her, at all, in fact she enjoyed her company in the quiet times. Matthew had told her enough for her to realise she was just curious. She dealt with the dead, not the living, had no experience of children beside the ones in their house and readily admitted she would probably be of no use should Jean decide to go into labour while she was there. Jean had laughed and said it was ok, she could talk her through it.

It was Jean who offered her the chance to feel the kicks, "if you want to," she smiled. "Helen loves to sit and talk to him, and he kicks her when she does."

"Oh, er ..." Alice blushed, and put her hand tentatively on the bump, "goodness, does it hurt?"

"No, not really," Jean shrugged, "if he kicks a rib it can be uncomfortable but it's not painful."

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Jean noticed everyone referred to the baby as 'he', or 'him' and she thought it would be nice to give Lucien a son, someone to carry on the family name, but, really, as long as it was healthy she would be happy and Lucien insisted he didn't mind one way or the other, as long as both of them were well.

"We can't choose, love," he murmured one night, stroking the bump and eliciting kicks against his finger, "and I don't think we should be able to. It would cause an imbalance - too many fathers would be wanting sons - look at Jackson."

"I'd rather not," she pouted, "my father never made me feel like I was a disappointment, being a girl, even when I slipped up."

"Smart feller," he mused, "guess that's where you get it from."

"I suppose we ought to think of names," she changed the subject, "for a boy, I think, perhaps, Thomas? Your father did bring us together, in a big way."

"Two Thomas' in the house, could you cope?"

"Two Luciens might be worse," she teased.

"Huh," he puffed, "but still, not Lucien, I got teased rather a lot when I was a child, at school, called 'Lucie', too often." He looked at her astonished face, "Hey, I was young, words hurt!"

"Hm, well, I do think 'Thomas' somewhere in his name," she drew her brows together.

"How about 'John', Thomas John, then perhaps he could be known by his middle name, except when he's in trouble ..."

"Which is bound to happen because of his parents, or at least his father," she smirked.

"Cheek, still Thomas John Blake sounds good, strong ..."

"I think I'll call him 'Jack', though, for his everyday name."

Lucien could see they had settled on a name for his son, but ...

"If it _is_ a girl, just in case?"

"Genevieve," she nodded firmly, "I nearly called Mary that, or at least had it as her second name, but I thought it wasn't the kind of name for the child of an abandoned wife," she bit her lip.

He raised an eyebrow at this, but didn't question it, too much water under the bridge.

"Jenny for short," he smiled.

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Thomas John Blake (known as Jack) was born exactly two weeks after Jean and Lucien celebrated their first wedding anniversary. She didn't think the labour was as long or as painful as when Mary was born but then she was older and wiser. Lucien was confined to the corridor outside the room, which he hated. Pacing up and down, wishing she had had a home birth, but she had gone into labour while visiting Agnes Clasby in hospital and had been whisked away to the maternity ward before she had chance to think. Miss Clasby had demanded a wheelchair and been taken to the same spot and kept him company telling him Jean was strong and that everything would be alright.

"I know," he ran his hands through his hair, making it stand on end. Jean has remarked that very morning that it needed cutting and she would see to it that evening.

"Do the others know she's here?"

"I phoned dad," he stopped pacing, "he's going to do surgery for me, and Mary and Li will pick up Helen ..."

"Does that other girl still live with you? "

"Sylvia?" he shook his head, "no, not now, it was only a temporary placement though we were happy to have her for as long as she wanted to stay with us. When her mother's case hit the papers a woman surfaced, claiming to be her aunt. Matthew did some investigating and found that Mrs Hammond did indeed have a sister. She came over to see Sylvia ..." he flinched as he heard Jean call out, "... a quite gentle and generous person, she and her niece took to each other almost immediately. School has been trying, for Sylvia, of late and we decided it would be better for her to have a new start elsewhere. We do miss her, especially Mary but they write."

"Are there you are," a familiar voice echoed down the corridor, "really Agnes," Nell Clasby huffed, "hasn't Lucien got enough to think about."

"It's quite alright, Miss Nell," Lucien smiled, "she's keeping me occupied and out of trouble."

"Any news yet?" she whispered.

"No, but Jean is working hard, from the sound of it," Lucien wrung his hands together, "we had hoped for a home birth, then I could at least hold her hand."

"I'm sure she'll be fine," Nell soothed, "she's strong and healthy."

Suddenly a cry rent the air and Lucien stopped pacing, turning to the door.

"He's here," he whispered, "that's a baby's cry."

"He, Lucien?" Nell raised her eyebrows.

"Jean is sure," he nodded.

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When he was finally allowed in to see his wife and baby all was calm in the room. Jean had been made comfortable and was sitting up with a tiny bundle in her arms.

"A boy, Lucien," she sighed, "told you," she grinned and handed Thomas John to his father. He cradled him gently and looked at the smattering of red hair, starting to curl as it dried, the button nose and dark eyes, the sweet little mouth.

"He's beautiful," he breathed then leant forward to kiss her gently, "Jean, oh my ..." he blinked back tears. "How are you, darling?"

"Fine, a little tired," she smiled, "nothing unusual."

You need to rest," he stood up.

"Stay a while longer, please," she reached over to touch his arm, "ask the nurse for some tea, for both of us."

Lucien did just that and stayed well beyond what the nurses wanted. He watched Jean put the baby to her breast and show him how to change the nappy, then he placed him in the bassinet at the side of the bed, ready to be taken down to the nursery.

"I wish I could have him with me, like I would have done at home," she slid down the bed and allowed him to tuck her in.

"Want me to ask?"

"No, they'll only say 'no'," she sighed, "and you better go, before we get into trouble." She smiled.

He bent down and kissed her, "send for me, if you need me," he whispered, "I'm at your beck and call."

"Go and give the family the news," she yawned, "I shall see you tomorrow."

He waited until she had fallen asleep before he left.

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On the way home he thought about what she had said, and it was true. If things had gone to plan she would not be separated from her child, he would be at their bedside.

He opened the door and looked down the hall, four expectant faces looked at him.

"A boy," he smiled, "Thomas John, just on seven pounds." He was suddenly wrapped in warm arms, kissed and shrieked at.

"Yay!" Helen squealed, "we have a brother!"

"You do indeed," Thomas smiled, "congratulations, son. How is Jean?"

"Tired, she's sleeping," Lucien moved down to the kitchen, "he's had his first feed and been settled in his bassinet. He's probably down in the nursery now." He pouted, Jean's voice echoing in his head.

"Something wrong, Lucien?" Thomas looked concerned.

"No, they're both fine, it's just Jean is ... well you know she wanted to have him here, at home, so he could be by her side and not taken from her."

"What's to stop her coming home?" Mary folded her arms and stared at him. She got more like her mother every day, Lucien thought.

"New mothers have to stay in hospital for a week, Mary," Thomas started to explain, "to rest and be looked after. They have to stay in bed, are not allowed to do anything. When you were born it was three weeks."

"How did you keep my mother confined to bed for three weeks?" she raised her eyebrows.

"I didn't," he admitted, "she came home after a week, but I insisted she did not do all the housework, we had someone in to do that, she was allowed to do a few light chores, had to nap when you did ..."

"In that case," Lucien grinned, "taken into account the changes in the way we look after maternity cases, perhaps I should bring her home tomorrow, confine her to bed here ..."

"She does have two doctors on hand," Li pointed out.

"And we can do the chores and the housework," Mary chimed in.

"Can I help too?" Helen tugged his jacket.

Lucien sat down and pulled her onto his knee, "of course you can," he kissed her, "well, that looks like a plan, now all I have to do is persuade her medical team at the hospital ..."

"Good luck with that, son," Thomas muttered, "the maternity sisters can be formidable."

"Yeah," he smiled.

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The following day, Lucien took Helen to school, dropped the older girls at the Grammar school and headed to the hospital to do his rounds. His idea was then to go and see his wife and son and hopefully persuade the maternity sister to let him take them home. Hoping for a home birth, Jean hadn't packed a hospital bag but in the bassinet was a set of clothes for the baby and he reckoned he could put together an outfit for her. Some underwear, stockings, and a dress should suffice, he hoped.

"Don't forget her toiletries," Thomas stood watching him, amused.

"Thanks, dad," he turned and smiled, "hope this works."

"So do I son, so do I."

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Knowing Lucien would insist on seeing her after his rounds she asked the nurse to leave Jack in his bassinet at the side of the bed. When she worried about what Sister would say about that Jean just smiled and told her she would deal with Sister.

Sister wasn't happy but Jean was stubborn and reminded her that Dr Blake was actually her doctor and therefore her son's. It would be less than efficient if he had to wait while they brought him up from the nursery. Sister huffed but acquiesced to the request and so she was happily playing with the baby on the bed when Lucien arrived.

He smiled at the sight. She looked so happy and incredibly well, not at all like the wilting violet he supposed he should expect, from his experience with Mei Lin. Given half the chance, he thought, she would be in the kitchen preparing a meal or out shopping with Jack in the pram.

"Good morning, doctor," she looked up and smiled, "how lovely of you to come and see us." She turned to the baby, "see, Jack, here's daddy come to visit."

"Jean," he was by her side in two strides," you look wonderful, how are you feeling?"

"Bored," she laughed, "I have nothing to do but feed Jack, which I love doing, by the way, or sleep. The staff won't let me do anything else."

"So ..." he waved at the baby.

"Oh, I told them you were my doctor and therefore his, so it would be silly to have to wait while they brought him up to us."

"Want to go home?" he picked up his son, almost addressing him rather than Jean.

"We do," she nodded.

"Right then," he lifted the bag up, "better get dressed."

"Lucien!" she shrieked, "I know I persuaded your father to let me home only a week after Mary, but this is not even twenty four hours!"

"The girls will be around to help, even Helen," he sighed, "two doctors on hand, as Li pointed out, what's the problem?"

"Sister," she nodded towards the door, "she hasn't let me out of bed yet."

"So ..." he pursed his lips, thinking of bodily functions she would need to attend to.

"Everything is in working order," she assured him.

"Well, as your doctor," he leant forward and kissed her, "and your husband, I think you are well enough to come home." He stood up and went to look at her charts at the end of the bed, "hm," he mused, "as I thought, perfectly well enough."

She giggled and looked into the bag.

"It'll do," she hummed, and pulled out Jack's clothes.

"Sorry, I wasn't sure and you hadn't packed a bag," he blushed.

"Well, I was supposed to do this at home, wasn't I?" she sighed, "it would seem your son is going to be trouble."

"Hasty, I expect," he agreed, lifting the baby up and looking at him, "you, young man," he addressed him seriously, "need to be a little more patient."

Jean laughed out loud, causing Sister who was passing to stride in, without knocking.

"Doctor?" she raised her eyebrows as she surveyed the sight, "something wrong?" she saw Lucien's serious face.

"Nothing at all, Sister," he turned and smiled, "just explaining to my son that he should exercise a little patience. Now, while Jean gets dressed could you find her notes and I'll sign the discharge papers."

"Discharge!?" she gasped, "oh no, doctor, she has to stay in at least a week."

"Nonsense, two doctors at home, plenty of help in the house," he grinned, "no need for her to clutter up the hospital."

Jean frowned at the thought she was 'cluttering up' the hospital then saw his cheeky face.

"Just for that, doctor," she grumbled, "you can dress Jack. I warn you it is a bit like trying to put an octopus into a net!"

"My dear," he nodded solemnly, "come on son, let's get you into some going home togs, there's a family waiting to meet you."

"Doctor!" Sister put her hand on his arm, "I'm sorry, but Mrs Blake is not going anywhere."

"I'm sorry, Sister," he looked down at her, "I am Mrs Blake's GP and I deem her fit enough to leave, discharge papers, please."

"But..."

"Sister ..." he warned.

"Very well, but on your own head be it," she turned and stalked out of the room, muttering about doctors upsetting her ward.

"I shall just get a wheelchair," he passed Jack to her.

"Oh no you won't" she huffed, "that will only give Sister fuel to keep me in, I shall walk, slowly, to the car."

"Are you sure?" he scowled, lifting the bag.

"Absolutely," she nodded firmly, and, with one arm cradling her son and the other nestled in the crook of Lucien's arm they left the hospital.

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Matthew was surprised to find Alice not at home when he finished his shift that day. He knew that Jean had given birth so as Alice had spent quite a bit of time with her assumed she had gone to visit her in hospital.

"I'm sorry, Inspector," the nurse looked him up and down, still in uniform, "but Mrs Blake went home this morning."

"Really?" he blinked, "I thought ..."

"Yes, well, her doctor thought otherwise," the Sister grumbled behind him.

"Right, well, I'll be off then," he hurried away, she looked quite fearsome.

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"Hello, Uncle Matthew," Mary opened the door, "come to say hello to the newest member of the family, Dr Harvey is here too," she smiled and stood aside to let him enter. "We are just preparing dinner, you will stay, won't you?"

"Er .." he scratched his head, it was all a bit surreal.

"Lovely," she hummed.

Jean looked up from her position on the couch in the living room, having persuaded Lucien, with widened eyes and an alluring smile that she would be perfectly alright there.

"Matthew!" she grinned, "so you found us?"

"Sister said ..." he stepped in shyly, "that your doctor took you home."

She giggled, "he was ever so persuasive."

"I bet," he stood next to the couch and watched Alice cradling the baby, she seemed so peaceful.

"Hello, Matthew," she murmured, "this is our godson, Thomas John, Jack to his friends and family."

"Blimey," he sat on the arm of the couch, "a boy, then?"

"Of course," Jean stated it as if it would be otherwise.

"He's tiny," he observed. Jean grimaced. "Well, he'll grow, I suppose." Alice rolled her eyes.

He cleared his throat and offered his congratulations.

"Thank you, Matthew," Jean smiled and Lucien offered him a whisky, he looked like he needed it.

"To Thomas John," they raised their glasses, "and to Jean who did all the hard work," Thomas (the grandfather) noted.

"To Jean, my wife," Lucien bent down and kissed her softly.

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Alice lay curled up next to Matthew after a round of lovemaking.

"They look so happy," she whispered.

"They are, love," he drew circles on her naked shoulder.

"Not all families are," she observed.

"True," he agreed, "but a lot are, like them and my sister."

"Just not us," she shrugged.

"We are, but I know what you mean, we weren't."

"Do you think we could be ... like them, I mean?"

"A family, rather than a couple?" he kissed the top of her head, "I don't see why not, but that would mean ..."

"Mm," she wriggled closer, "and who's to say we could ... have children, that is."

"Fun trying," he squeezed her shoulders.

"Next year is a leap year," she muttered.

"So ..."

"Well, I could ask you," she tipped her head.

"If that's what you want, why wait?" he shrugged, "you can ask anytime, Alice, you know what my answer will be."

"Alright," she sat up the covers round her hips, her breasts on show, "Inspector Lawson, will you marry me?"

"In a heartbeat, Dr Harvey," he sat up and wrapped his arms round her.

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 **Two years and four months later:**

"I never thought it would be like this," Alice murmured as Jean passed her a cup of tea.

"What, you and me, drinking tea and comparing children?" Jean lifted Jack off his baby brother, James.

"That, and me, married with a baby girl," she sipped the tea, "I still have to pinch myself."

"Two years ago I had three daughters, one my own, one Lucien's and one adopted," Jean shrugged, "now I have two sons as well, five children, I never would have thought it."

"More likely you than me," Alice huffed, "in fact, it's all your fault."

"Mine, Alice you do know how this happens?" Jean laughed.

"Not that," her friend raised her eyebrows, "it was seeing you, with all that I thought was out of reach. I proposed, you know, to Matthew, the night you brought Jack home. We didn't know if we would have children but I suppose I wanted what you have, that love, that ... completion. I never knew ..."

"Alice," Jean took her hand, "Matthew was meant for you and you for him, I think that is why he never found anyone, until you came along. Now you have Matilda and I think it was written, in the stars or whatever, this is what was meant to be."

"Matilda, hah!" Alice laughed, "we were certain she would be a boy, Matthew Alexander, that was what we decided on, Matilda Alexandra was the closest we could come up with, but I think it suits her, though we call her Mattie."

"She's perfect," Jean assured her, "and yes, it does suit her."

They settled to their tea and watching the little ones play one the living room floor ... peace and harmony. It was all Jean had ever wanted.

Thomas watched his daughter in law and her friend from the doorway, an smiled, he could die happy now, though he had absolutely no intention of doing so ... for quite some time.

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Thus ends this version of the story. I didn't want it to drag on forever, having noted that some of my other stories, as yet unfinished, are turning into long running soap operas. Thank you to all who have taken the time to read and comment you have been very kind.


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